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"Books  that  you  may  carry 
to  the  fire,  and  hold  readily 
in  your  hand,  are  the  most 
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—  JOHNSON 


STORIES   OF 
NEW  YORK 


STORIES   FROM   SCRIBNER 

» 
STORIES  OF 

NEW  YORK 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 


Copyright,  1893,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

t 

FROM  FOUR  TO  Six 
A  COMEDIETTA      BY  ANNIE  ELIOT 

THE  COMMONEST  POSSIBLE  STORY 

BY   BLISS   PERRY 

THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 
BY  GEORGE  A.  HIBBARD 

A  PURITAN  INGENUE 
BY  JOHN  S.  WOOD 

MRS.  MANSTEY'S  VIEW 
BY  EDITH  WHARTON 


FROM  FOUR  TO  SIX 

By  ANNIE  ELIOT 
A    COMEDIETTA    IN    ONE   ACT 


ESTHER  VAN  DYKE.      HAROLD  WHITNEY. 

A  MAID. 

ESTHER  discovered  seated  in  a  New  York 
drawing-room.  She  has  been  reading  and 
tearing  old  letters. 

E.  I  am  sure  one  might  ask  anyone  to 
an  afternoon  tea,  even  if  anyone  were 
one's  old  lover  ;  and  I  am  sure  one  might 


12  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

come  to  anyone's  afternoon  tea,  even 
if  anyone  were  one's  quondam  sweet- 
heart. Fronv  both  Harold's  stand-point 
and  mine,  it  seems  to  me  perfectly  safe. 
Certainly  the  vainest  man  could  not  be- 
lieve that  a  woman  wished  to  rake  up  the 
leaves  of  a  dead  past  because  she  sent 
him  an  At-home  from  four  to  six  card,  for 
a  day  when  she  is  to  be  at  home  for  two 
hundred  people  besides.  If  it  were  an 
evening  party,  now — in  summer  with  the 
lawn,  or  in  winter  with  a  conservatory — 
or  if  there  is  not  a  conservatory  there  are 
always  stairs  ;  and  it's  daily  more  and 
more  the  fashion  to  build  them  curved. 
Another  generation  may  find  discreet  re- 
cesses at  every  landing.  When  people 
are  really  thoughtful  there  will  be  a  tem- 
porary addition  where  people  can  go  up 
and  down.  Oh,  if  it  was  an  evening 
party  I  could  not  blame  Harold  for  stay- 
ing away.  Or  if  it  was  private  theatricals 
— the  stage  is  itself  one  grand  opportu- 


FROM   FOUR   TO   SIX  13 

nity!  Or  a  picnic — what  innumerable 
openings  for  raking  up  the  dry  leaves  of  a 
dead  past  on  a  picnic  !  But  an  afternoon 
tea!  Nothing  stronger  or  dryer  than  tea- 
leaves  to  be  had.  Harold  need  not  be  in 
the  least  afraid.  Besides,  it  would  have 
been  really  unfriendly  not  to  send  him  a 
card.  Everybody  knows  he  is  at  home 
again,  and  from  a  four  years'  trip.  Even 
after  all  that  has  passed  I  would  not  wish 
to  be  unfriendly.  Four  years,  and  they 
say  that  he  is  engaged  to  Mattie  Mont- 
gomery—  and  just  before  he  went  away 
he  was  engaged  to  me.  (A  little  sadly.) 
Perhaps  he  was  foolish.  Perhaps — I  was. 
Undoubtedly  we  both  were.  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  feel  flattered  that  he  waited  four 
years — but  somehow  I  don't — altogether  ; 
"  flattered  "does not  seem  to  be  the  word. 
Well,  it  makes  little  difference  now,  and 
it  will  make  less  when  I  tell  him  to-mor- 
row that  I  am  engaged  to  Dr.  Tennant. 
I  thought  I  might  as  well  look  over  his 


14  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

letters.  I  have  burned  all  but  the  last. 
(Takes  tip  letter  from  the  table.}  Here  it 
is.  (  Takes  up  a  second  letter. )  And  here 
is  Dr.  Tennant's  first.  Two  models  of 
epistolary  communication — but  of  differ- 
ent orders.  (Reads.) 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  VAN  DYKE  :  I  shall 
give  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling  upon 
you  this  afternoon  at  five  o'clock.  It  rests 
with  you  whether  or  not  this  pleasure  is 
to  be  intensified  a  hundredfold,  or  at- 
tended with  lasting  pain.  I  remain  always, 
"  Yours  most  cordially, 

"  EDWARD  TENNANT." 

What  could  be  better  suited  to  the  cir- 
cumstances than  that  ?  Not  too  impas- 
sioned, but  sufficiently  interested.  I  am 
always  affected  by  well-turned  phrases — 
I  think  this  is  charming.  And  here  is 
Harold's.  (Reads  other  letter.} 

"You  have  made  it  plain  enough. 
There  is  no  necessity  for  more  words. 
Heaven  forgive  you — and  good-by." 


FROM   FOUR  TO   SIX  15 

(  Thoughtfully. )  He  was  in  a  pretty  pas- 
sion when  he  wrote  that — and  I  have  not 
seen  him  since.  I  hope  he  will  come  to- 
morrow. He  used  to  think  Mattie  Mont- 
gomery was  a  doll  of  a  thing.  Perhaps  he 
will  tell  her  that  I  am  a — no,  he  won't. 
Whatever  I  am,  I'm  not  a  doll  of  a  thing, 
and  he  knows  it.  (Looks  at  the  two  letters 
side  by  side.)  How  amusing  one's  old 
flirtations  look  in  the  light  of  a  new  and 
serious  reality— for  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  what  to  say  to  Dr.  Tennant.  It  will 
be  rather  good  fun  to  tell  Harold  of  it 
confidentially  to-morrow.  I  will  drop  it  in 
his  tea  with  a  lump  of  sugar.  ( Glances  at 
clock.}  After  four  o'clock.  Well,  I  must 
go  and  make  myself  fascinating  and  give 
orders  that  Dr.  Tennant  and  I  are  not  to 
be  disturbed.  We  may  as  well  begin  to 
get  used  to  tete-a-tetes.  (Exit  after  put- 
ting the  letters  under  a  book,  out  of  sight.} 


STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 


Enter  HAROLD  WHITNEY.     He  seems  dis- 
turbed. 

H.  This  is  certainly  confoundedly  odd. 
I  expected  to  find  fifty  other  people  here 
at  least,  and  Esther  in  her  best  gown  re- 
ceiving them.  I  can't  have  mistaken  the 
hour.  It  is  some  time  after  four.  There 
is  certainly  a  mistake  somewhere,  how- 
ever, and  under  the  circumstances  it  is 
likely  to  be  a  particularly  awkward  one. 
I  would  walk  a  good  mile  and  a  half  to 
avoid  a  tete-a-tete  with  Esther  Van  Dyke. 
Because  I  have  been  fool  enough  after 
four  years  to  remember  the  color  of  her 
eyes,  I  don't  care  to  have  her  know  it  and 
see  it.  I  would  leave  now,  like  the  his- 
toric Arab,  if  I  hadn't  been  such  an  ass  as 
to  give  my  card  to  the  servant,  and  Esther 
has  seen  it  by  this  time.  I  would  rather 
face  the  music  than  give  her  the  pleasure 
of  laughing  at  me  for  running  away.  But 
what  does  it  mean  ?  I  must— the  blood 


FROM    FOUR   TO   SIX  17 

curdles  in  my  veins  at  the  thought — I  must 
have  mistaken  the  day  !  The  Fate  which 
I  have  felt  dogging  my  footsteps  from  the 
cradle  has  at  last  laid  hold  upon  me  !  I 
have  dreamed  of  getting  to  a  place  the 
day  before  I  was  asked.  I  have  loitered 
irresolutely  on  door-mats.  I  have  gone 
slowly  by  and  watched  until  I  saw  another 
carriage  go  in,  but  I  have  never  done  it 
before.  And  to  have  come  to  Esther  Van 
Dyke's  after  four  years,  and  such  a  part- 
ing, a  day  too  soon !  My  bitterest  foe 
would  find  it  in  his  heart  to  pity  me  now 
What  can  I  do  ?  (  Walks  around  the  room 
and  fingers  things  restlessly.')  I  might  go 
off  with  the  spoons  to  divert  suspicion.  I 
would  rather  be  arrested  as  a  profession- 
al burglar,  entering  the  house  under  false 
pretences,  than  witness  Esther's  smile 
when  she  comes  to  a  realizing  sense  of 
what  I  have  done.  Professional  burglars 
probably  retain  their  self  respect.  There 
is  no  reason  why  they  shouldn't.  The 


18  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

date  of  their  visit  is  not  fixed  by  invita- 
tion. But,  confound  it !  there  won't  be 
any  spoons  until  to-morrow.  Perhaps  she 
won't  know  I  have  come  a  day  too  soon — 
but  she  always  did  know  things — that  was 
the  kind  of  person  she  was.  ( Takes  up  a 
book  from  the  table.")  I  might  read  to  com- 
pose my  mind.  "  Familiar  Quotations," 
— I  wish  I  could  find  an  elegant  and  ap- 
propriate one  for  the  occasion.  I  can 
think  of  several,  entirely  familiar  to  the 
most  unlearned,  but  too  forcible  for  a 
lady's  drawing-room.  "  Too  late  I  stayed  " 
would  hardly  do.  I  wonder  what  the 
fellow  would  have  sung  if  "  Too  soon 
he'd  come."  (Thrones  do-ii<n  book.)  I 
thought  I  could  accept  an  invitation  to  an 
afternoon  tea,  because  I  need  only  say  a 
word  to  her,  see  if  she  had  changed,  and 
leave.  That  seemed  safe  enough.  Be- 
sides, Miss  Montgomery  chaffed  me  about 
coming,  and  wouldn't  have  hesitated  to 
make  the  most  of  it  if  I  had  stayed  away. 


FROM    FOUR   TO   SIX  19 

( Looks  about. )  The  room  has  not  changed 
much.  I  wonder — here  she  is.  Now,  for 
all  I  have  learned  in  four  years,  I  would 
like  to  conceal  myself  in  the  scrap-basket, 
but  it  is  out  of  the  question. 

Enter  ESTHER. 

E.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Whitney  ?  I  am 
very  glad  to  see  you.  (  They  shake  hands.) 

H.  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  say  so, 
Esth — Miss  Van  Dyke.  (Aside.}  I  never 
felt  so  fresh  in  my  life. 

E.  It  was  nice  of  you  to  think  of  com- 
ing this  afternoon  instead  of  waiting  until 
the  crush  to-morrow,  when  I  should  have 
an  opportunity  for  no  more  than  a  word 
with  you. 

H.  (aside).  She  does  not  look  satirical. 
Why  didn't  I  bring  some  flowers  or  some- 
thing ?  (  They  sit.  Aloud,  with  somewhat 
exaggerated  ease  of  manner. )  When  one's 
hostess  receives  all  the  world,  one's  own 
reception  cannot  be  a  personal  one.  Af- 


20  STORIES    OF    NEW    YORK 

ter  four  years  I  wished  for  something 
more  positive.  Perhaps  I  have  been  too 
bold,  but  an  afternoon  tea  is  so  very  im- 
personal, you  know. 

E.  (a  little  embarrassed  by  his  manner, 
aside}.  Can  it  be  that  he  does  not  wish 
our  relations  to  be  impersonal  ?  Of  course 
not!  (Aloud.}  Yes,  I  know.  Very  im- 
personal indeed.  I  was  thinking  the  same 
thing  before  you  came. 

H.  (aside).  Yes,  and  I  was  thinking  the 
same  thing  before  I  came.  We  haven't 
either  of  us  gotten  on  much.  (Aloud.)  I 
was  always  an  exacting  sort  of  fellow,  you 
know,  so  you  will  not  be  surprised  at  my 
coming  to  get  a  reception  on  my  own  ac- 
count. 

E.  (aside).  I  should  think  I  did  know. 
(Aloud.)  No,  I  am  not  surprised.  (A 
moment's  pause — with  a  slight  effort.}  So 
you  are  an  exacting  sort  of  fellow  still  ?  I 
am  looking  for  the  changes  of  four  years, 
you  see. 


FROM    FOUR   TO    SIX  21 

H.  (significantly}.  You  may  not  find 
many,  after  all.  {Somewhat  gloomily.} 
The  rose  -  color  wears  off  one's  glasses 
somewhat  in  four  years,  to  be  sure,  but 
I  don't  think  the  perspective  changes 
much. 

E,  Don't  you  ?  It  strikes  me  that  time 
reverses  the  glasses  —  that  we  find  our- 
selves suddenly  looking  through  the  other 
end,  and  things  that  once  were  so  large 
are  a  long  way  off,  and  have  become  ex- 
tremely small. 

H.  (aside}.  Which  means,  I  suppose, 
that  I  have  taken  a  back  seat,  and  must 
keep  at  opera -glass  distance.  {Aloud.} 
Things  have  no  importance  of  their  own, 
then  ?  I  suppose  it  is  a  good  deal  a  mat- 
ter of  which  way  you  look  at  it. 

E.  Yes,  education  does  everything  for 
us  —  which  is  something  of  a  platitude. 
But  I  am  sorry  about  the  rose-color.  I'd 
much  rather  you  should  look  at  me 
through  tinted  glasses.  I  said  the  other 


22  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

day  to  a  confidential  friend  that  my  com- 
plexion is  no  longer  what  it  was. 

H.  (refusing  to  be  diverted).  Xo,  I  do 
not  think  one's  views  of  persons  change 
—  or  perhaps  I  should  say  one's  atti- 
tude toward  persons — as  do  those  of  ab- 
stractions. One  does  not  expect  to  find 
truth  —  trust  —  honor  —  love,  growing  so 
large. 

£.  (soberly}.  In  other  words,  truth  is  a 
hot-house,  and  one's  ideas  are  tropical. 
Well,  it  is  perhaps  as  well  to  come  out 
into  the  open  air,  even  if  things  do  seem  a 
little — stunted — at  first. 

H.  Undoubtedly.  Yet  the  comfort  of 
the  human  frame  demands  something  in 
the  way  of  a  temperate  zone  between.  A 
sudden  plunge  into  the  arctic  regions  is 
apt  to  convey  a  chill — quite  a  serious  one 
sometimes. 

E.  (aside}.  I  wonder  if  that  is  meant 
for  a  veiled  allusion.  (Aloud.}  But  nat- 
ure generally  provides  a  way  of  softening 


FROM    FOUR   TO    SIX  23 

matters,  and  makes  such  changes  not 
chilling,  but  bracing. 

//.  (carelessly).  Yes — Nature  has  been 
much  maligned  in  her  time,  but,  after  all 
she  is  kinder  than  humanity  in  certain  of 
even  its  most  attractive  forms.  She  is  im- 
partial and  she  contrives  to  let  one  down 
easily.  I  am  sometimes  astonished  that 
Nature  should  be  personified  as  a  woman. 

E.  (looking- away  from  him).  I  see  you 
have  become  a  cynic. 

//  (with  intention).  I  have,  perhaps, 
lived  up  to  my  opportunities.  They  have 
not  been  unfavorable  to  cynicism.  (Laugh- 
ing.) Do  you  know,  Esther,  this  is  very 
much  the  way  we  used  to  talk  ?  We  were 
continually  dealing  in  the  most  artistic 
abstractions.  How  easily  one  drops  into 
old  fashions  ! 

E.  (aside).  How  can  he  speak  so  light- 
ly of  "  the  way  we  used  to  talk,"  or  is  it 
only  I  that  remember?  (Aloud,  coldly.*) 
Possibly,  but  old  fashions  are  very  readily 


24  STORIES   OF    NEW    YORK 

seen  not  to  belong  to  the  present  day. 
And  yet — I  may  be  mistaken — but  it  seems 
to  me  that  we  used  to  talk  in  a  way  that 
bordered  on— on  the  concrete. 

H.  (a  little  nonplussed}.  Yes — that  is 
true — but  we  were  not  so  successful  there. 
(Aside.)  Decidedly  we  did.  On  the  very 
concrete,  indeed  !  And  that  was  where 
she  always  had  the  better  of  me.  She  is 
quite  capable  of  doing  it  again — but  she 
does  not  wish  to. 

E.  (calmly').  But  where  were  we  in 
our  abstractions  ?  Ah,  with  Nature.  I 
always  get  beyond  my  depth  when  Nat- 
ure is  introduced  into  the  conversation. 
Human  nature  I  do  not  mind  at  all,  you 
know,  but  Nature  by  itself  frightens  me. 
I  think  it  is  the  capital  N.  I  feel  that  I 
ought  to  go  out-of-doors  and  appreciate 
her. 

H.  I  remember  you  were  always  afraid 
of  getting  beyond  your  depth.  I  was  less 
prudent,  however,  which  was  sometimes 


FROM   FOUR   TO   SIX  25 

unfortunate.  (Aside.}  I  shall  be  flound- 
ering again  if  I  go  on  with  this  remember- 
ing. (Aloud.)  So  you  are  still  cautious  ? 
I  have  not  had  the  four  years  to  myself. 
Have  they  not  changed  you  at  all,  Esth — 
Miss  Van  Dyke  ? 

E.   {pensively}.     Yes. 

H.  (with  attention).  You  are  not  quite 
the  same,  then  ?  I  should  not  have  known 
it. 

E.  (with  emphasis').  Wouldn't  you, 
really  ? 

H.   Unfortunately  for  me — no. 

E.  No,  I  am  not  the  same. 

H.  (in  a  low  tone).  Will  you  tell  me 
how  you  have  changed  ? 

E.  (after  a  pause).  I  have  grown  stout ! 
Yes,  I  have.  I  have  gained  twenty 
pounds  in  the  four  years  you  have  been 
away. 

H.  (laughing).  The  inference  pains 
me  deeply.  But  twenty  pounds  can  be 
judiciously  distributed  without  actual  in- 


26  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

jury  to  the  possessor.  Is  there  anything 
else  ? 

E.  {sentimentally}.  Ah,  yes,  when  I  am 
introduced  to  a  new  man  I  no  longer  ex- 
pect to  find  him  A  mine  of  entertainment. 
I  used  to.  Now  I  am  surprised  if  I  have 
not  to  be  clever  for  both  of  us. 

//.  Is  that  so  new  ?  (Thoughtfully.)  I 
sometimes  think  I  was  stupid  for  both  of 
us — or — could  it  have  been  only  that  you 
were  too  wise?  (Aside.')  Oh,  this  fatal 
tendency  to  reminiscence — and  I  know 
better ! 

E.  (with  a  slight  effort).  You  are  car- 
rying me  too  far  back.  I  am  marking  my 
progress  since  I  saw  you.  {Aside. )  Cer- 
tainly this  is  too  much  like  burrowing  in 
the  leaves  of  a  dead  past.  No  wonder  he 
did  not  wait  until  to-morrow. 

//.  Forgive  me,  and  go  on  with  the  dis- 
illusionments. 

E.  Sadder  yet,  I  no  longer  care  when  a 
younger  and  a  fairer  girl  "  cuts  me  out," 


28 


STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 


to  put  it  boldly.  1  think  I  shall,  you 
know,  but  I  don't.  I  sigh — but  I  forget 
them—  both! 

H.  This  shows  a  callousness  really 
alarming.  You  might  at  least  reserve 
the  guiltier  party  for  future  punishment. 
Perfidy  merits  at  least  remembrance.  It 
is  sometimes  a  man's  last  hold. 

E.  (carelessly}.  A  man  should  risk  lit- 
tle on  so  commonplace  a  resource — if  one 
wishes  to  be  remembered,  one  should  be 
unusual.  Besides,  you  would  imply  that 
the  man  is  the  guiltier  party  ? 

H.  Only  as  far  as  his  lights  are  taken 
into  consideration,  of  course.  Man  is  a 
poor  creature  at  his  best  —  in  compari- 
son. 

E.  And  sometimes  a  comparatively  in- 
nocent one.  To  find  another  woman  more 
attractive  is  blamable,  but  to  be  a  more 
attractive  woman  ought  to  be  unpardon- 
able. 

H.  "To  err  is  human— fiendish  to  out- 


FROM    FOUR    TO    SIX  29 

shine."  I  understand.  (  With  marked  po- 
liteness. )  Permit  me  to  suggest  that  it  is 
rarely 

£.  (laughing).  But  I  have  said  I  have 
lost  my  capacity  for  feeling  thrusts  of  this 
kind.  (In  a  lower  lone.}  At  least,  I  be- 
lieved that  I  had. 

H.  (dryly}.  I  was  always  a  little  un- 
fortunate in  my  attempts  to  make  amends 
— always  too  late,  perhaps. 

E.  (meeting  his  eyes}.  Yes,  making 
amends  was  never  your  forte. 

//.  Any  more  than  cherishing  illusions 
is  yours.  But,  pray,  go  on  with  your  rev- 
elations. I  must  improve  the  unexpected 
pleasure  of  finding  you  alone. 

E.  (a  little  embarrassed}.  Whom,  then, 
did  you  expect  to  find  here  ?  (Aside.}  He 
cannot  have  known  that  Dr.  Tennant  is 
coming.  (Aloud.}  Who  would  interfere, 
did  you  think,  with  the  personal  welcome 
you  so  desired  ? 

H.   (aside}.     I  was  getting  on  so  well. 


30  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

(Lightly.}  Oh,  party  calls,  you  know, 
and 

E.  (dryly').  You  will  find  that  customs 
have  not  changed  so  much  in  four  years.  It 
is  still  unusual  to  pay  party  calls  in  advance. 

H.  (aside).  That  was  a  brilliant  way  to 
recoup  my  falling  fortunes  !  (Boldly.)  Is 
this  an  indirect  way  of  blaming  me  for 
coming  this  afternoon  ?  (Rising.)  I  sup- 
pose it  was  unwise.  (Aside.)  I  should 
rather  think  it  was.  (Aloud.)  I  will  go 
now — Esther. 

E.  (quickly}.  You  know,  Harold,  I  did 
not  mean  anything  so  rude.  Do  not  go 
— unless  you  must. 

H.  (aside).  I  must — theoretically.  But 
I  sha'nt — not  after  that  "  Harold."  If  I 
hadn't  prided  myself  for  years  on  its  being 
inalienable  property,  I  should  say  I  was 
losing  my  head.  (Aloud.}  Will  you  tell 
me  more  of  your  four  years  ? 

E.  (seriously).  Yes.  I  have  grown  wise. 
I  have  grown  hard — a  little. 


FROM    FOUR    TO    SIX  3! 

H.  (so/fly).  You  were  hard  before — a 
little. 

E.  Are  they  not  the  same — wisdom  and 
hardness  ?  I  have  learned  to  believe  that 
they  are. 

H.   (impulsively").     Not  always. 

E.  And  I,  too,  have  acquired  the  sense 
of  proportion.  I  have  seen  that — that — 
Love  is  not  all  the  world.  I  have  learned 
that  the  comfortable  is  more  to  be  desired 
than  gold — yea,  than  fine  gold. 

H.  Yes  ;  Gold  and  Love  must  both  be 
tried  in  the  furnace,  which  is  seldom  a 
comfortable  operation. 

E.  And  you — do  you  not  agree  with 
me  ?  Is  it  not  better  to  look  on  ? 

H.  So  long  as  it  is  not  at  another's 
happiness  that  one  has  desired  for  one's 
self — yes. 

E.  (aside}.  How  if  it  be  another's  un- 
happiness,  I  wonder.  Poor  Dr.  Tennant. 
{Sighs.} 

H.   (aside}.     I  shall  make  an  ass  of  my- 


32  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

self  in  a  moment.  She  is  not  changed  an 
atom.  (Aloud. )  But  what  leaves  of  wisdom 
have  you  steeped  for  me  ?  I  expected  a 
cup  of  tea,  and  you  have  given  me  a  decoc- 
tion that  should  heal  all  disappointments. 

E.  (half  sadly}.  If  I  had  known  I  pos- 
sessed such  a  secret  I  should  have  brewed 
some  for  myself  before  this.  But  (rising) 
if  you  expected  a  cup  of  tea  you  shall 
have  it. 

H.  (eagerly}.  By  Jove  !  Esther!  I  beg 
pardon — but  Miss  Van  Dyke,  I  beg  of 
you (Stops  helplessly.} 

E.  I  was  just  about  to  send  for  it  for 
myself.  (She  rings.  Aside.)  I  see  it  all. 
He  has  come  a  day  too  soon.  And  he 
would  have  had  me  believe  that  he  cared 
to  see  me  alone.  And  I  was  actually 
growing  sentimental.  He  shall  pay  for  it. 
(Enter  a  maid.)  Tea,  Mary  Ann. 

H.  (who  has  been  fidgeting  about  the 
room — aside).  If  only  I  had  gone  half  an 
hour  ago — in  the  flush  of  triumph,  as  it 


FROM    FOUR   TO   SIX  33 

were  !  It  was  unnecessary,  in  order  to 
avoid  making  a  sentimental  spectacle  of 
myself,  to  fall  back  upon  the  larder  ! 

E.  (going  back  to  table  and  taking  np  a 
letter}.  Do  you  know  what  I  was  doing 
when  you  came  this  afternoon  ? 

//.  Learning  a  new  Kensington  stitch  ? 
Studying  a  receipt-book  ?  Putting  a  man 
out  of  his  misery  by  letter  ?  These  are,  I 
believe,  some  departments  of  "  woman's 
work." 

E.  No,  I  was  reading  an  old  letter — 
one  by  which  a  man  put  himself  out  of 
misery.  Your  last  letter,  in  fact. 

H.  My  last  letter  ? 

E.  Yes. 

MARY  ANN  brings  iu  the  tea,  and  as  ESTHER 
moves  things  on  the  table,  she  hands  him 
DR.  TENNANT'S  letter  by  mistake.  HAK- 
OLD  glances  at  it  and  looks  up  surprised, 
but  ESTHER  does  not  see  him. 

H.  Am  I  to  read  this  ? 
E.   Certainly. 


34  STORIES    OF    NEW    YORK 


MARY  ANN   leaves  the  room.     ESTHER   busies 
her  self  with  the  tea-things. 

H.  (having  read  the  letter  —  stiffly). 
Very  elegant  penmanship. 

E.  (surprised  but  indifferently'].  I  had 
not  thought  of  that.  (A  pause.} 

H.  (glancing  at  the  letter  again).  I 
fancy  the  writer  did. 

E.  (coldly}.  Possibly.  (Aside.)  Oh, 
why  did  I  show  it  to  him  ?  I  would  not 
have  believed  he  would  be  so  hard. 
(Aloud.)  Rather  a  forcible  style,  I  think. 

H.  Stiff,  rather  than  forcible,  I  would 
suggest. 

E.  (with  suppressed  feeling).  Your  crit- 
icisms are  less  pointed  than  usual.  If  you 
had  said  unnatural  it  might  express  your 
meaning  still  better. 

H.  (a  tittle  irritated).  He  is  a  fortunate 
man  who  is  able  to  express  himself  with 
such  justness  and  freedom  from  exaggera- 
tion. 


FROM    FOUR    TO    SIX  35 

E.  It  seemed  to  me  exaggerated  at  the 
time. 

H.  (with  mock  admiration}.  Oh,  how 
can  you  say  so  !  It  is  positively  Grandi- 
sonian — almost  Chesterfieldian.  (Aside.) 
And  utterly  detestable. 

E.  (almost  with  tears] .  I  was  wrong  to 
fancy  you  would  be  interested  in  such  a 
trifle.  Please  give  it  back. 

H.  (politely,  handing  it  to  her}.  Not  at 
all.  Certainly,  the  writer  deserves  the 
lasting  happiness  he  refers  to.  (Aside.} 
And  I  wish  it  were  nothing  to  me — if  he 
gets  it  or  not. 

E.  What  do  you  mean  ?  Is  this  what 
I  gave  you?  Oh,  dear!  (Much  embar- 
rassed.} It  was  the  wrong  one  !  Never 
mind.  Here  is  your  tea. 

H.  (takes  the  cup,  after  a  short  pause}. 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  forced  myself  into  your 
confidence. 

E.  You  need  not.  It  was  my  own 
stupidity,  of  course. 


36  STORIES    OF    NEW    YORK 

H.  (tastes  hi!  tea}.  Might  I  see  the 
other  one  ? 

E.  Yes.      (Gives  it  to  him.] 

H.  (reads  it  while  ESTHER  watches 
him].  Yes  ;  well,  I  might  have  said  more. 
But  that  was  enough. 

E.  Yes,  that  was,  as  the  children  say, 
a  great  plenty.  Oh,  I  neglected  your  tea  ! 
One  lump,  or  two  ? 

H.  (thoughtfully).  One.  I  wonder  if 
it  has  ? 

E.   What  has? 

//.   Heaven. 

E.   Heaven  has  what  ? 

H.   Forgiven  you. 

E.  I  think  so,  by  this  time.  It  doesn't 
bear  malice.  Cream  ? 

H.  Yes — prussic  acid — anything.  Thank 
you.  You  do  not  ask  whether  I  have 
or  not. 

E.  No.  I  understood  you  shifted  the 
responsibility  once  for  all.  (Sipping  her 
tea.] 


FROM    FOUR    TO    SIX 


37 


H.  Perhaps  I  did.  It  fe  generally  once 
for  all  with  me. 

E.  Is  it  ?  It  is  better  to  have  all— for 
once.  It  is  broader.  It  is  more  liberal. 
It  is  my  motto. 

H.  Yes.  So  it  was  then.  I  have  heard 
there  is  safety  in  numbers.  (Aside.)  If  I 
believed  that,  I  should  begin  to  repeat  the 
multiplication-table.  I  shall  never  be  in 
greater  need  of  it. 

E.  Not  always. 

H.  (with  an  effort).  Possibly  Sir 
Charles  Grand  —  I  mean  Mr.  Edward 
Tennant — may  have  a  narrowing  influ- 
ence. (Aside.)  It  is  no  use.  I  can't  be 
discreet.  Confound  Mr.  Edward  Ten- 
nant ! 

E.  {innocently}.  Perhaps.  {Drinks tea.} 
And  so  you  are  engaged  to  Mattie  Mont- 
gomery ? 

H.  (formally').  You  do  me  too  much 
honor. 

E.  Really!     (More  coolly.}     That   is  a 


38  STORIES    OF    NEW   YORK 

pity.  I  hoped  we  might  proffer  mutual 
congratulations.  An  exchange  of  compli- 
ments is  such  a  promoter  of  good  feeling. 

H.  (more  stiffly],  I  see  I  have  been  re- 
miss. But  I  did  not  understand. 

E.  No,  it  is  not  yet  time— but  I  have 
betrayed  his  confidence  inadvertently. 
To-morrow  you  must  congratulate  me. 
To-morrow  I  shall  tell  you  that  I  am  en- 
gaged. Let  me  give  you  another  cup. 

H.  (rising}.  No,  one  is  enough.  Once 
ought  always  to  be  enough  !  But  it  seems 
I  am  fated  to  have  it  twice  !  I  know  I  am 
incoherent  —  but  never  mind!  It's  the 
tea! 

E.  (playing  with  her  teaspoon  a  little 
nervously).  And  you  have  forgiven  me  ? 

H.  I  do  not  know  that  I  have.  But 
(coldly]  whether  I  have  or  not  is  of  course 
only  a  personal  matter. 

E.  (feebly).     Of  course. 

H.  And  so  you  are  to  tell  me  to-morrow 
that  you  are  engaged  ?  Might  I  ask  you 


FROM    FOUR   TO    SIX  39 

if,  in  taking  this  step,  you  were  actuated 
by  a  wish  to  obtain  my  forgiveness  ? 

E.  (laughing],  I  expected  you  to  ask 
mine — for  being  engaged  to  Mattie  Mont- 
gomery. 

H.  (sits}.  Suppose  this  afternoon  you 
tell  me  about  the — to  be  colloquial — the 
happy  man.  And  I  will  have  some  more 
tea. 

E.  {looking into  the  sugar-bowl}.  Well, 
to  tell  the  truth  this  afternoon — he  doesn't 
happen — to  be — colloquially — the  happy 
man. 

H.  (aside;  walking  about}.  So  that 
note  was  written  to-day.  I  did  not  see 
the  date.  It  is  not  yet  five  o'clock,  and  it 
is  not  yet  too  late.  I  shall  gain  nothing 
by  getting  rattled  and  making  a  fool  of 
myself.  (Aloud,  coming  back  and  holding 
oiit  his  cup,  into  which  ESTHER  drops 
sugar  as  they  speak. }  Have  I  then  taken 
his  place  ? 

E.   (gravely}.     No.     He  is   (lump}  con- 


STORIES   OF    NEW    YORK 


servative  (lump)  in  his  (lump]  tastes 
(lump).  He  takes  (lump)  no  sugar  (lump] 
at  all  (lump)  in  his. 

//.  (zt>A0  has  been  watching  ESTHER'S 
face,  and  not  her  fingers,  sets  down  his 
cup  hastily).  Seven  lumps  is  a  little  radi- 
cal. Then  you  have  forgotten  all  in  four 
years  ?  (Pacing  the  floor.)  Forgotten 
what  I,  Esther,  have  been  fool  enough  to 
remember  as  if  it  had  happened  yester- 
day !  Who  is  it  talks  about  woman's  con- 
stancy ? 

E.  (aside).  Not  I.  But  I  am  very  much 
afraid  I  shall  begin  to.  Has  the  tea  gone 
to  my  head  too  ? 

H.  (with  much  feeling).  The  bitterest 
lesson  the  four  years  have  taught  me, 
Esther,  is  that  one's  earliest  lessons  are 
never  unlearned.  They  have  been  kinder 
to  you. 

E.  (in  a  low  tone).  Have  they  ?  Per- 
haps. They  have  taught  us  both,  how- 
ever, that  it  is  not  necessary  to  unlearn 


FROM    FOUR   TO    SIX  4! 

them  ;  one  can  go  on  as  if  one  had  never 
studied — old  lessons. 

H.  Or  old  letters  ?  (Coming  nearer 
and  taking  up  the  letter.}  But  you  did 
care  for  me  enough  to  keep  this  letter — to 
read  it  over  to-day — to  give  one  thought 
to  old  happiness  in  the  presence  of  new  ? 

E.  (recovering  herself  with  an  effort}. 
I  thought  enough  of  myself  to  keep  it.  It 
is  a  mistaken  theory  that  a  woman  keeps 
old  love-letters  for  the  sake  of  the  sender. 
She  keeps  them  because  they  are  flatter- 
ing— because  they — they  sound  nice.  I 
have  lots  more. 

H.  (offended}.  And  you  were  only  weed- 
ing them  out  to-day  ?  Very  well.  That. is 
enough.  No  further  words  are  necessary. 

E.  Yes — so  you  said  before  (glancing 
at  letter},  or  something  very  like  it.  (Look- 
ing into  the  teapot.}  There  is  no  more 
tea  for  us,  and  the  lamp  has  gone  out. 
(Looking about.}  And  no  matches — unless 
you  have  one  in  your  pocket. 


42  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

H.  (who  has  been  thinking,  moodily  feels 
in  all  his  pockets}.  I  am  very  sorry — but 
I  cannot  supply  you  with  even  the  neces- 
saries of  life. 

E.  Never  mind,  I  can  light  it  from  the  fire. 

H.  (pushes  the  letters  toward  her}. 
Make  a  lamplighter  of  one  of  these,  and  I 
will  light  it  for  you. 

ESTHER  hesitates  an  instant,  takes  up  one  let- 
ter, and  then  the  other. 

H.  Oh,  use  mine.  It  has  failed  to  re- 
kindle a  passion,  but  it  may  do  for  a  tea- 
kettle. It  may  as  well  be  reduced  to 
ashes  along  with  the  rest  of  the  poor  little 
love-story. 

ESTHER  turns  her  head  a   little  away  and 
slowly  twists  both  letters  into  lamp-lighters. 

H.  (aside}.  I  shall  let  all  my  hopes 
burn  in  the  flame  with  my  letter.  If  she 
uses  that,  I  give  her  up.  I  shall  know 
she  is  not  mine  to  give  up.  I  have  come 
to  the  pass  where  folly  is  my  only  reason. 


FROM    FOUR   TO   SIX  43 

She  is  twisting  Dr.  Tennant's  !     But  now 
she   is  twisting  mine.     (She  rises  to  go  to 
the  fire  and  he  rises  to  do  it  for  her,} 
E.  I  prefer  to  do  it  myself. 

She  returns  with  one  burning,  with  which  she 
lights  the  lamp,  and  lays  the  other  down  on 
the  table.  He  takes  it  np  eagerly. 

H.  So,  Esther,  you  did  not  burn  it, 
after  all  ?  {Rising  and  coming  toward 
her. )  You  did  not  care  that  the  last  of  it 
should  go  out  in  ashes  ? 

E.  (speaking  lightly}.  It  was  not  that 
so  much,  but  I  was  afraid  it  was  better 
suited  for  an — extinguisher.  I  think  that 
was  more  what  you  meant  it  for. 

HAROLD  goes  back  to  his  seat  gloomily  and 
tastes  his  tea.  ESTHER  plays  with  the  tea- 
spoon— a  pause. 

E.  How  do  you  like  your  tea  ? 
H.   It  is  a  little— cloying. 
E.   (rising  and  moving  about  the  room). 
A  bad  fault. 


44  STORIES   OF    NEW    YORK 

H.  {dryly}.  But  fortunately  an  uncom- 
mon one. 

E.  (with  feeling).  I  have  made  a  great 
many  mistakes  in  my  life — suffered  a  great 
deal  of  unhappiness — because  I  have  been 
afraid  of  being  cloying.  (Aside.)  Am  I 
mad,  that  I  should  tell  him  the  foolish 
truth  ! 

//  (rising).  I  should  say  it  was  a  fault 
to  which  you  were  not  constitutionally 
inclined.  (Aside.)  That  sounds  much 
firmer  than  I  feel. 

E.  No,  but  on  that  very  account  peo- 
ple should  have  borne  with  me  more 
than  they  have!  (Still  with  feeling.} 
Things  might  have  been  different. 

H.  (going  toward  her).   Esther!  (A  bell.) 

E.  (hurriedly).  Never  mind !  There 
is  the  door-bell !  Things  are  going  to  be 
different!  (With  a  faint  smile.)  I  told 
you  he  did  not  like  any  sweet  at  all  in  his. 

H.  (impetuously).  And  have  I  not  had 
my  full  allowance  of  bitter  ?  It  is  time 


FROM    FOUR    TO    SIX 


45 


you  began  dispensing  sweets — so  let  him 
stay  away. 

E.  (laughing  nervously").  But — but  it. 
wasn't  my  idea  to  get  rid  of  him. 

H.  The  plan  is  ready  for  your  accept- 
ance. You  were  going  to  tell  me  you 
were  engaged  to-morrow — tell  him  so  to- 
day, instead ! 

E.  (glancing  at  clock}.  I  cannot.  His 
engagement  was  made  with  me  a  week 
ago. 

H.  And  mine  five  years  ago.  (She  hes- 
itates.') Besides,  he  is  late — half  an  hour 
late.  What  is  it  about  a  lover  who  is 
late  ?  He  has  divided  his  time  into  more 
than  "  the  thousandth  part  of  a  minute." 

E.  (laughing).  And  are  you  not  later 
— by  four  years  ? 

H.  (firmly).  I  am  twenty -four  hours 
ahead  of  time. 

A  knock.     Enter  maid  with  a  card. 
E.  Show  him  into  the  reception-room. 


46  STORIES    OF    NEW   YORK 

I  will  come  in  a  moment.  (Exit  maid.) 
It  is  he,  Harold.  I  must  go. 

H.  (taking  her  hands}.  Esther,  think 
one  moment.  Forget  the  four  years.  I 
have  come  a  day  too  soon.  I  have  swal- 
lowed two  cups  of  tea  and  eight  lumps  of 
sugar  and  made  a  general  ass  of  myself— 
but — I  love  you. 

E.  But — but  this  is  so  shameless  !  I 
thought  I  should  have  to  say — something 
like  that — to  him. 

H.  (coolly).  And  I  am  in  time  to  save 
you  from  so  unfortunate  a  mistake.  You 
had  much  better  tell  it  to  me. 

E.  But  I  must  give  him  an  answer. 

H.  Give  me  one  first !  Adopt  my  plan, 
it  is  so  simple.  Send  word — or  tell  him, 
if  you  like — that  you  are  engaged.  But 
come  back  ! 

E.  Indeed,  he  shall  have  his  answer 
first.  His  right  demands  precedence  at 
least.  But  (opening  the  door)  I  will  come 
back. 


FROM    FOUR    TO    SIX 


47 


H,  To  five  years  ago  ? 

E.  Perhaps.  {Returns  just  as  she  is 
leaving  the  room.}  But,  Harold,  Harold. 
I  thought  an  afternoon  tea  was  so  safe,  or 
I  should  never  have  asked  you. 

H.  And  so  did  I— or  I  should  never 
have  come. 

CURTAIN. 


THE    COMMONEST    POS- 
SIBLE   STORY 


BY  BLISS  PERRY 


PHILANDER  ATKINSON,  bachelor  of 
law  and  writer  of  light  verse,  sat  one 
murky  August  evening  in  his  hall-bed- 
room, with  the  gas  turned  low,  wondering 
whether  the  night  would  be  too  hot  for 
sleep.  At  a  quarter  before  ten  a  loitering 
messenger-boy  brought  him  a  line  from 
his  friend  Darnel :  Come  around  at  once. 
Just  back.  The  very  greatest  news. 
Thereupon  Atkinson  discarded  his  smok- 
irig-jacket,  reluctantly  exchanged  his  slip- 
pers for  shoes,  and  took  the  car  down  to 


52  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

Twelfth  Street,  remembering  meanwhile 
that  Darnel's  brief  vacation  from  the 
Broadway  Bank  expired  that  day,  and 
speculating  as  to  the  nature  of  the  great 
news  which  the  clerk  had  brought  back 
from  Vermont.  The  lawyer  was  a  Ver- 
monter  too,  and  it  was  this  fact,  as  well 
as  a  common  literary  ambition,  that  had 
drawn  the  young  fellows  together  at  first, 
long  before  Philander,  on  the  strength  of 
having  two  triolets  paid  for,  had  moved  up 
to  Thirty-first  Street.  Philander  Atkin- 
son liked  Darnel,  admired  his  feverish  en- 
ergy and  his  pluck,  envied  his  acquaint- 
ance with  books.  He  had  always  persisted 
in  thinking  that  Darnel's  stories  would 
sell,  if  only  some  magazine  would  print 
one  for  a  starter  ;  and  he  had  patiently 
listened  to  most  of  these  stories,  and  to 
some  of  them  several  times  over.  Yet 
Darnel  had  never  had  any  luck ;  had 
never  had  even  his  deserts  ;  and  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  congratulations  whenever 


COMMONEST    STORY  53 

Atkinson's  verses  saw  the  light  always 
caused  Philander  to  feel  a  trifle  awkward. 
He  knew  that  the  indefatigable  clerk  had 
two  or  three  manuscripts  "out" — out  in 
the  mails — when  the  vacation  began,  and 
as  he  turned  in  at  Darnel's  boarding- 
house  he  had  almost  persuaded  himself 
that  The  s£on  had  accepted  "  Laki,"  his 
friend's  Egyptian  story.  It  was  a  long 
climb  up  to  Darnel's  room,  and  the  writer 
of  light  verse  mounted  deliberately,  being 
fat  with  overmuch  sitting  in  his  office 
chair.  On  the  third  floor  the  air  was 
heavy  with  orange-flowers  and  Bonsilene 
roses,  and  a  caterer  was  carrying  away 
ice-boxes.  A  whimsical  rhyme  came  into 
Philander's  head,  and  he  made  a  mental 
note  of  it.  Just  then  Darnel  appeared, 
leaning  over  the  balustrade  of  the  fourth- 
floor  landing,  his  coat  off,  his  collar  visibly 
the  worse  for  the  railway  journey,  and  an 
eager  smile  upon  his  thin,  homely  face. 
"Hullo,  D.,"said  Philander.  "Here 


54  STORIES    OF    NEW   YORK 

I  am.  Been  having  a  wedding  here  ?  " 
he  added  in  a  low  voice,  as  he  grasped 
Darnel's  hand, 

''  I  believe  so.  I'm  just  back.  Come 
in,  Phil.  You  got  my  message  ?  " 

"  Why  else  should  I  be  here,  old  fel- 
low ?  Is  it  '  Laid,'  sure  ?  " 

Without  answering,  Darnel  led  the  way 
into  his  tiny  room.  .His  trunk  lay  upon 
the  floor,  half-unpacked,  the  folding-bed 
was  down,  for  the  better  accommodation 
of  some  of  the  trunk's  contents,  and  the 
desk  in  the  corner,  under  the  single  jet  of 
gas,  was  covered  with  piles  of  finely  torn 
paper.  Darnel's  manner,  usually  nervous 
and  somewhat  conscious,  betrayed  a  cer- 
tain exhilaration,  but  he  was  under  per- 
fect self-control. 

"  '  Laki  ?  '  "  he  said,  seating  himself  in 
his  revolving  chair  and  whirling  around 
to  the  desk,  while  Atkinson  threw  himself 
upon  the  bed,  "  '  Laki  ? '  Oh,  I  had  for- 
gotten. It's  probably  here."  He  pulled 


COMMONEST    STORY  55 

over  the  mail  accumulated  during  his  ab- 
sence. "Yes."  He  tore  open  the  big 
envelope.  '' '  The  editor  of  The  &on  re- 
grets to  say,'  etc.  ;  "  and  he  tossed  the 
printed  slip,  with  the  manuscript,  into  his 
waste-basket,  with  a  laugh. 

Atkinson's  heart  sank.  Poor  Darnel  ; 
it  was  not  a  cheerful  welcome  home. 
But  Darnel  was  busied  with  his  letters. 

"  And  here  are  the  others,"  he  went  on. 
"  I  thank  the  Lord  none  of  them  were  ac- 
cepted." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Philander,  turn- 
ing" upon  his  elbow. 

Darnel  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzling 
smile. 

"  That's  why  I  sent  for  you,"  said  he. 
"  Phil,  all  that  I've  been  writing  here  for 
three  years  is  stuff,  and  I've  only  just 
found  it  out.  I  can  do  something  differ- 
ent now." 

Atkinson  stared.  Darnel  had  rarely 
talked  about  his  own  work,  and  then  in  a 


56  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

scarcely  suppressed  fever  of  excitement 
and  anxiety.  Many  a  time  had  Atkinson 
noticed  his  big  hollow  eyes  turn  darker, 
and  his  sallow  face  grow  ashy,  even  in 
reading  over  with  a  shaking  voice  some 
of  that  same  "  stuff. " 

"  I  have  learned  the  great  secret,"  Dar- 
nel added,  quietly. 

"  You  have  Aladdin's  ring?  "  said  At- 
kinson. "  Or  are  you  in  love  ?" 

"  Both,"  replied  Darnel.  "  It  is  the 
same  thing." 

Philander  flung  himself  back  upon  the 
pillow,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  Go  ahead, 
D." 

"  I  have  found  her,  and  myself.  Let 
me  turn  down  the  gas  a  little  ;  I  see  it 
hurts  your  eyes.  I  belong  in  the  world 
now  ;  I  am  in  the  heart  of  it— I  said  to 
myself  coming  down  the  river  this  after- 
noon— in  the  heart  of  the  world."  He 
lingered  over  the  words.  "  Phil,"  he  ex- 
claimed, suddenly,  "  all  the  time  I  was 


COMMONEST    STORY  57 

trying  to  write  I  was  really  trying  to  lift 
myself  by  the  boot-straps.  I  was  labor- 
ing to  imagine  things  and  people,  and  to 
get  them  on  paper.  It  was  all  wrong. 
Do  you  remember  that  French  poem  you 
read  me  last  winter,  about  the  idol  and 
the  Eastern  princess — how  she  lay  on  her 
couch  sleeping — the  night  was  hot— with 
the  bronze  idol  gazing  at  her  with  its  por- 
phyry eyes,  while  her  brown  bosom  rose 
and  sank  in  her  sleep,  and  the  porphyry 
eyes  kept  staring  at  her  —  staring  —  but 
they  never  saw  ?  Well,  I  believe  my  eyes 
have  been  like  that.  In  '  Laki,'  now,  you 
know  I  wanted  to  describe  the  exact  color 
of  the  stone  in  the  quarry,  and  asked  the 
Egyptologist  up  at  the  Museum  to  tell 
me  what  it  was  ?  He  laughed  at  me. 
Very  well.  It  was  a  dull-red  stone,  with 
bright-red  streaks  across  it  ;  I  saw  the 
same  thing  in  Troy  this  afternoon,  when 
a  hod -carrier  fell  five  stories  and  they' 
picked  him  up  from  a  pile  of  bricks." 


58  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

"  You're  getting  rather  realistic,"  mut- 
tered Philander.  Darnel  was  not  looking 
at  him,  and  went  on  unheeding. 

"  I  have  but  to  tell  what  I  see.  I  have 
stopped  imagining  ;  my  head  has  ached — 
Phil,  you  don't  know  how  it  has  ached — 
trying  to  imagine  things.  I  am  past  that 
now  ;  if  you  only  shut  your  eyes  and  look, 
it  is  all  easy.  Take  that  old  Edda  story 
that  I  tried  to  work  up,  about  the  fellow 
who  fought  all  day  long  against  his  bride's 
father,  and  when  night  came  the  bride 
stole  out  and  raised  all  the  dead  men  on 
both  sides,  by  magic,  so  that  the  next 
day,  and  every  day,  the  battle  raged  on 
as  before.  I  used  to  plan  about  the 
magic  she  used,  and  tried  to  invent  a 
charm.  Why,  all  she  did  was  to  pass  over 
the  battle-field  at  night,  where  the  dead 
lay  twisted  in  the  frost,  and  while  the 
wolves  snarled  around  her  and  the  spray 
from  the  fiord  wet  her  cheek,  she  stooped 
to  touch  the  dead  men's  wrists  ;  and  they 


COMMONEST    STORY  59 

loosed  their  grip  upon  broken  sword  and 
split  linden  shield,  their  breath  came 
again,  soft  and  low  like  a  baby's,  and  so 
they  slept  till  the  red  dawn." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Atkinson,  sitting  up 
very  straight,  "  you've  been  reading  '  The 
Finest  Story  in  the  World,'  and  it  has 
turned  your  head." 

"Oh,  the  London  clerk  who  was  con- 
scious of  pre-existences,  and  forgot  them 
all  when  he  fell  in  love  ?  I  could  have 
told  Rudyard  Kipling  better  than  that 
myself."  Darnel  gave  an  impatient  whirl 
to  the  revolving  chair. 

"  You  mean  you  think  you  can,"  re- 
plied Atkinson,  sharply. 

"As  you  like."  He  spoke  dreamily, 
and  Atkinson  dropped  back  on  the  pillow 
again,  watching  his  friend  as  narrowly  as 
the  dim  light  would  allow.  Hard  work 
and  unearthly  hours  had  told  on  Darnel ; 
he  certainly  seemed  light-headed. 

41  Sickening  heat — black  frost — "  he  was 


60  STORIES    OF    NEW   YORK 

murmuring  ;  marching,  stealing,  fighting, 
toiling — joy,  pain — the  life  of  the  race — is 
a  man  to  grow  unconscious  of  these  things 
in  the  moment  that  he  really  enters  the 
life  of  the  race,  that  he  feels  himself  a 
part  of  it  ?  What  do  you  think,  Phil  ?  " 

"I  think,"  was  the  slow  reply,  "that 
whatever  has  happened  to  you  in  Ver- 
mont has  shaken  you  up  pretty  well,  old 
fellow.  They  say  that  when  someone 
asked  Rachel  how  she  could  play  Phtdre 
so  devilishly  well,  she  just  opened  her 
black  Jewish  eyes  and  said,  '  I  have  seen 
her.'  And  I  think,  in  the  mood  you're  in 
now,  you  can  see  as  far  back  as  Rachel 
or  anybody  else.  It's  like  being  opium- 
drunk  ;  if  you  could  keep  so,  and  put  on 
paper  what  you  see,  you  could  beat  Kip- 
ling and  all  the  rest  of  them.  But  you 
can't  keep  drunk,  and  you  can't  write  prose 
or  verse  on  love-delirium.  It's  been  tried. " 

"  Suppose  Rachel  had  said,  '  I  am 
Phedre?'" 


COMMONEST    STORY  6l 

Atkinson  lifted  his  stout  shoulders, 
laughing  uneasily.  "  So  much  the  worse. 
I  should  say,  the  less  pre-existence  of  that 
sort  the  better.  You  might  as  well  tell  me 
the  whole  story,  D.  What  is  her  name  ?  " 

"  In  a  moment.  She  loves  me,  Phil. 
She  is  waiting  for  me  in  her  little  house 
among  the  hills.  I  left  her  only  this 
morning,  and  soon  I  shall  go  back  and 
leave  New  York  forever.  I  can  write  the 
story  up  there — the  story  I  have  dreamed 
of  writing — for  I  shall  always  have  the 
secret  of  it.  I  have  but  to  shut  my  eyes 
and  tell  what  I  see  ;  and  it  is  because  she 
loves  me.  All  the  life  of  all  the  past — 
I  can  call  that  'A  Story  of  the  Road.1 
Then  there  will  be  the  future  to  write  of 
— the  men  and  women  that  are  to  come  ; 
for  we  shall  have  children,  Phil,  and  in 
them " 

"You're  making  rapid  progress,"  ejac- 
ulated Philander. 

" 1  shall  know  the  story  of  the  fut- 


62  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

ure.  Even  now  I  know  it ;  I  do  not  sim- 
ply foresee  it,  I  see  it.  Why  not  '  A 
Story  of  the  Goal !  '  For  I  belong  to  it — 
do  you  not  understand  ?  Yet,  after  all, 
what  is  that  compared  with  the  present  ? 
It  shall  be  '  A  Story  of  the  March  !  ' 
Look  there  !  " 

He  threw  his  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling, 
which  was  brightened  for  an  instant  by 
the  headlight  of  an  elevated  train  as  it 
rushed  past. 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  engineer  was 
really  thinking  of  as  he  went  by  ?  That 
would  be  story  enough.  Or  what  was  in 
the  heart  of  the  bride  to-night,  down  on 
the  third  landing — you  smelled  the 
orange-flowers  as  you  came  up  ?  To  feel 
that  your  heart  is  in  them,  and  theirs  in 
you " 

But  Philander  Atkinson  was  not  listen- 
ing to  the  lover's  rhapsody.  He  was 
thinking  of  a  certain  summer  when  he, 
too,  had  had  strange  fancies  in  his  head  ; 


COMMONEST    STORY  63 

when  his  thoughts  played  backward  and 
forward  with  swift  certainty  ;  when  he  had 
grown  suddenly  conscious  of  great  desires 
and  deep  affinities,  and  for  a  space  of  some 
three  months  he  had  dreamed  of  being 
something  more  than  a  mere  verse-maker, 
a  master  of  the  file.  Then — whether  it 
was  that  she  grew  tired  of  him,  or  they 
both  realized  that  some  dull  mistake  had 
been  made — it  was  all  over.  There  was 
still  in  his  drawer  a  package  of  manuscript 
he  had  written  that  summer  ;  in  blank 
verse,  none  too  noble  a  form  for  the  high 
thoughts  which  then  filled  him  ;  in  a  queer 
new  rhythm,  too,  the  secret  of  whose  beat 
he  had  caught  at  and  then  lost,  for  the 
lines  read  harshly  to  him  now.  He  looked 
these  things  over  occasionally,  as  a  sort 
of  awful  example  of  himself  to  himself ; 
though  he  had  gone  so  far  as  to  borrow- 
some  of  their  imagery,  not  without  a 
certain  shame,  to  adorn  his  light  verse. 
His  card-house  had  fallen,  but  some  of 


64  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

the  colored  pasteboard  was  pretty  enough 
to  be  used  again.  Curiously,  he  found 
that  he  could  cut  pasteboard  into  more 
ingenious  shapes  than  ever  since  his  brief 
experience  in  piling  it  ;  fancy  served  him 
better  after  imagination  left  him  ;  his  trio- 
lets were  admirably  turned,  and  his  luck 
with  the  magazines  began.  Altogether  it 
had  been  an  odd  experience  ;  half  those 
crazy  ideas  of  Darnel  had  been  his  two 
years  before,  but  he  was  quite  over  them 
— yes,  quite — and  now  it  was  D.'s  turn. 
He  listened  again  to  something  that  Dar- 
nel was  murmuring. 

"  And  she  is  an  ordinary  woman,  one 
would  say  ;  a  common  woman.  That  is 
the  mystery  and  the  glory  of  it.  I  do  not 
know  that  she  is  even  beautiful.  There 
must  be  thousands  of  women  like  her  ;  I 
can  see  it  plainly  enough,  that  there  must 
be  thousands  of  women  in  the  world  like 
her."  There  was  a  reverent  hush  in  his 
voice. 


COMMONEST    STORY  65 

Atkinson  choked  back  an  exclamation. 
Was  D.'s  head  really  turned  ?  "A  com- 
mon woman  " — "  not  know  whether  she  is 


beautiful  ?  "  A  face  rose  before  him,  un- 
like any  face  in  all  the  world  :  eyes  with 
the  blue  of  Ascutney,  when  you  look  at  it 
through  ten  miles  of  autumn  haze  ;  hair 


66  STORIES   OF    NEW    YORK 

brown  as  the  chestnut  leaf  in  late  Octo- 
ber ;  mouth 

Philander  trembled  slightly,  and  rising 
to  his  feet,  stood  looking  down  at  Darnel, 
haggardly.  It  was  quite  over,  that  experi- 
ence of  two  summers  before,  but  while  it 
lasted  he  had  at  least  never  dreamed  that 
there  were  thousands  of  women  in  the 
world  like  her. 

"Sit  down,  Phil,  I  am  almost  through. 
A  woman  like  other  women,  and  the 
story,  when  I  write  it,  a  common  story. 
It  will  be  the  commonest  possible  story  ; 
common  as  a  rose,  common  as  a  child.  I 
am  going  back  to  Vermont,  where  I  was 
born,  and  where  I  have  been  born  anew. 
There  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  the  story 
— years,  and  years,  and  years.  I  have 
only  to  close  my  eyes  some  day,  and  she 
will  write  down  all  I  tell  her,  and  I  shall 
call  the  story  hers  and  mine." 

But  Atkinson  still  stood,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  his  heavy  figure  stooping,  the 


COMMONEST    STORY 


67 


lines  hardening  in  his  face,  while  he 
watched  the  rapt  gaze  of  Darnel,  and 
drearily  reflected  how  strange  it  was  that 
a  woman  should  open  all  the  gates  of  the 
wonder-world  to  one  man's  imagination, 
and  that  some  other  woman  should  close 
those  secret  gates,  quietly,  inexorably, 
upon  that  man's  friend. 

"  Wait,"  said  Darnel.  "  Must  you  go 
back  to  your  triolets  ?  Let  me  show  you 
her  picture  first."  He  turned  the  gas  up 
to  its  fullest  height,  and  held  out  a  photo- 
graph. 

It  was  the  same  woman. 


THE   END   OF  THE    BEGIN- 
NING 

BY  GEORGE  A.  HIBBARD 


CITY  OF  NEW  YORK, 

April  10,  1887. 

DEAR  SIR  :  It  is  with  some  hesitation 
that  I  venture  to  trespass  upon  your  val- 
uable time,  knowing  as  I  do  that  the 
demands  of  clients,  of  constituents,  of 


72  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

friends,  are  so  exacting.  Still,  as  what  I 
am  about  to  ask  relates  to  a  matter  lying 
very  near  my  heart,  I  hope  you  will  for- 
give me.  A  young  man  in  whom,  in  spite 
of  the  usual  extravagances  and  follies  of 
youth,  I  discern  some  promise,  and  whom 
I  hope,  for  his  own  sake  and  from  my 
friendship  for  his  excellent  father,  dead 
long  ago,  to  see  occupying  a  respectable 
position  in  the  community,  has,  with  the 
heedlessness  peculiar  to  his  age,  involved 
himself  in  certain  difficulties  which,  al- 
though at  present  of  a  sufficiently  distress- 
ing nature,  may,  I  hope,  be  satisfactorily 
overcome.  Knowing  so  well  your  dis- 
tinguished abilities,  ripe  judgment,  and 
great  experience,  I  can  think  of  no  one  to 
whom  I  can,  in  this  critical  period  of  his 
life,  more  confidently  send  him  for  coun- 
sel, instruction,  and  aid,  and  I  according- 
ly commend  him  to  you,  trusting  to  our 
old  friendship  to  account  for  and  excuse 
my  somewhat  unusual  act.  Though  what 
I  ask  of  you  is  something  not  usually  re- 
quired of  a  lawyer,  I  think  you  will  under- 
stand my  reason  for  thus  troubling  you. 
No  one  can  have  a  more  thorough  knowl- 


.    THE   END    OF   THE   BEGINNING        73 

edge  of  the  world  than  an  old  practitioner 
like  yourself,  and  what  you  may  say  must 
fall  upon  the  ears  of  youth  with  weighty 
authority.  Talk  to  him  as  you  would  to 
your  son,  if  you  had  one,  not  as  to  a 
client,  and  I  will  be  inexpressibly  in- 
debted to  you,  for  I  know  you  will  lead 
him  to  appreciate  the  serious  realities  of 
life,  which,  at  present,  he  is  so  disposed 
to  disregard. 

I  need  only  add  that  he  is  a  young  man 
of  some  fortune,  and,  certainly,  by  birth 
worthy  of  much  consideration.     He  will 
call  upon  you  in  person  and  himself  ex- 
plain his  present  embarrassments. 
I  remain,  now  as  always, 
Your  obedient  servant, 
RICHARD  BEVINGTON. 

THE  HON.  JACOB  MASKELYNE, 
Counsellor  at  law, 

Number — William  Street, 
City  of  New  York. 

This  was  the  letter  that  the  Honorable 
Jacob  Maskelyne  read,  reread,  and  read 
yet  again.  Indeed,  not  content  with  its 


74  STORIES   OF    NEW    YORK 

repeated  perusal,  he  turned  it  this  way 
and  that,  looked  at  it  upside  and  down, 
and  finally,  laying  it  upon  the  table,  he 
held  up  its  envelope  in  curious  study,  as 
people  so  often  do  when  thus  perplexed. 
It  bore  the  common,  dull -red  two -cent 
stamp  and  was  post-marked  the  day  be- 
fore. Both  it  and  the  letter  were  appar- 
ently as  much  matters  of  the  every-day 
world  as  a  jostle  on  the  side  -  walk. 
Nevertheless,  the  old  lawyer  was  more 
than  puzzled  —  more  than  puzzled,  al- 
though he,  of  all  men  in  the  great,  wide- 
awake city,  would  in  popular  opinion 
have  been  thought  perhaps  the  very  last 
to  be  thus  at  fault.  If  millstones  were  to 
be  worn  as  monocles — if  there  was  any 
seeing  what  the  future  might  bring  forth — 
the  chances  of  a  project,  the  risks  of  rise 
or  fall  in  a  stock,  the  hazards  of  a  corner 
in  a  staple,  the  prospects  of  a  party  or  of 
a  partisan,  Jacob  Maskelyne  would  be  re- 
garded as  the  man  of  men  for  the  work. 


THE  END    OF   THE   BEGINNING        75 


But,  under  the  circumstances,  even  to  him 
this  letter  was  more  than  perplexing. 
Here,  on  this  spring  morning,  with  floods 
of  well-authenticated  sunshine  pouring 
into  every  nook  and  corner,  dissipating 
every  mystery  of  shadow  and,  it  might 
seem,  every  shadow  of  mystery — here,  in 
his  office,  bricked  in  by  the  unimagina- 
tive octavos  of  the  law — those  hide-bound 
volumes,  heavy  literature  of  all  things 
most  amazingly  matter  of  fact  ;  here,  in 
the  eighteen  hundred  and  eighty-seventh 
year  of  the  Christian  era,  in  the  one  hun- 
dred and  eleventh  year  of  the  Republic, 
he  had  received  a  letter  from  his  old 
guardian,  whom,  when  he  himself  was  not 
more  than  twenty,  he  remembered  walk- 
ing about  a  feeble  old  man  with  many 
an  almost  Revolutionary  peculiarity  in 
speech  and  manner,  and  whose  funeral 
he,  with  the  heads  and  scions  of  most  of 
the  first  families  of  the  town,  had  attend- 
ed full  twenty-five  years  ago.  It  certainly 


76 


STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 


was    enough    to    bewilder    anyone      He 
again  took  up  the  letter.     It  was  unques- 


THE   END    OF    THE    BEGINNING         77 

tionably  in  old  Bevington's  best  style, 
courtly  enough,  but  a  trifle  pompous. 
Had  it  not  been  for  its  true  tone  he  would 
undoubtedly  have  thought  the  thing  a 
hoax  and  immediately  have  dismissed  it 
from  his  mind.  He  touched  a  hand-bell, 
and  in  response  a  young  man — a  very  pro- 
saic young  man — over  whose  black  clothes 
the  gray  of  age  had  begun  to  gather,  ap- 
peared. 

"  Bring  me  the  letters  received  of  the 
year  eighteen  sixty  —  letter  B,"  said  the 
lawyer,  sharply. 

That  was  the  year  in  which  his  father's 
estate  had  been  finally  settled,  and  he 
knew  that  there  would  be  many  examples 
of  his  guardian's  handwriting  in  the  cor- 
respondence of  that  time. 

The  clerk  soon  returned  with  a  tin  case, 
and  laid  it  on  the  table.  Mr.  Maskelyne 
took  one  from  among  the  many  papers 
therein,  and,  striking  it  sharply  against 
the  arm  of  his  chair,  to  scatter  the  dust 


78  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

that  invests  all  things  in  the  garment  the 
outfitter  Time  warrants  such  a  perfect  fit, 
he  spread  it  out  beside  the  letter  he  had 
just  read  with  such  blank  wonder. 

"  Identically  the  same,"  he  muttered. 
"  No  other  man  ever  made  an  e  like 
that." 

The  clerk  had  vanished  and  the  lawyer 
was  again  alone. 

He  glanced  once  more  at  the  mysterious 
missive,  and  then,  with  the  purposeless- 
ness  of  abstraction,  he  rose  and  went  to 
the  window.  Nothing  caught  his  eye  but 
the  sign-bedecked  front  of  the  opposite 
building  and  one  small  patch  of  blue  sky 
— near,  gritty,  limestone  fact  and  a  far- 
away something  without  confine.  Still, 
amazed  as  he  was  the  contagious  joy  of 
the  time  sensibly  affected  him. 

The  sparrows,  quarrelsome  gamins  of 
the  air,  for  the  time  reformed  by  honest 
labor  into  respectable  artisans,  upon  an 
opposite  entablature,  in  garrulous  amity 


THE   END    OF   THE   BEGINNING        79 


plied  their  small,  nest- 
making  joinery.  The 
sunlight  falling  through 
a  haze  of  wires,  wrought 


into  something  bright 
with  its  own  glow  a  tuft 
of  grass  which  clumped 
its  spears  in  its  fortalice, 
taken  in  assault,  on  the 


80  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

opposite  frieze.  Of  even  these  small 
things,  and  of  much  more,  Mr.  Maske- 
lyne  was  partially  conscious.  But  the  let- 
ter !  Clear-sighted  as  he  was,  he  knew 
but  little — so  forthright  was  his  look,  so 
fixed  toward  mere  gain — of  the  wonder- 
ful country  which  lies  beneath  every  man's 
nose,  less  even  of  the  vanishing  tracts 
which  retrospection  sometimes  sees  over 
either  shoulder.  But  the  letter  !  It  peo- 
pled his  vision  with  things  long  gone.  It 
brought  into  view  old  Bevington — "  Dick 
Bevington,"  as  he  was  called  to  the  last 
day  of  his  life — and  a  nickname  at  fifty 
indicates  much  of  character  ;  brought  up 
before  him  Dick  Bevington  as  he  was  be- 
fore age  had  stiffened  his  easy  but  digni- 
fied carriage  or  taught  his  once  polished 
but  positive  utterance  to  veer  and  haul  in 
sudden  change  ;  brought  up  old  Beving- 
ton, as  he  himself,  in  childhood,  had  seen 
him,  stately  but  debonair,  the  perfection 
of  aristocratic  exclusiveness,  affable,  how- 


THE   END    OF    THE    BEGINNING         8l 

ever,  in  the  genial  kindliness  of  a  kind- 
hearted  man  secure  in  every  position — a 
genuine  Knickerbocker  in  every  practice 
and  in  every  principle — a  well-born,  well- 
bred  gentleman.  And  that  once  active 
and  once  ebullient  life  had  long  ago  gone 
out !  It  almost  seemed  that  such  vitality, 
so  held  in  self-contained  management,  so 
wisely  put  forth,  so  well  invested,  so  to 
speak,  should  have  lasted  forever.  But 
now  there  was  nothing  left  to  bring  him  to 
mind  but  a  portrait  in  the  rooms  of  the 
Historical  Society,  or  a  name  in  the  list  of 
directors  when  tlie  history  of  some  bank 
was  given,  or  in  the  pamphlet  in  which 
the  story  of  some  charitable  institution 
was  told  from  the  beginning — really  there 
was  nothing  more  than  this  to  recall  Dick 
Bevington,  foremost  among  the  city's  fa- 
thers, the  leader  of  the  ton.  When  he 
had  last  seen  his  guardian  he  had  thought 
him  of  patriarchal  age.  And  was  not  he 
himself  now  nearly  as  old?  In  spite  of 


82  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

the  blithesome  aspects  of  the  morning, 
Jacob  Maskelyne  turned  away  from  the 
window  with  an  unwonted  weight  at  his 
heart  and  a  new  wrinkle  on  his  brow. 
The  whole  world  seemed  to  be  going 
from  him,  losing  charm  and  significance 
in  a  sort  of  blurring  dissatisfaction,  as 
upon  a  globe,  when  swiftly  turned,  lines 
of  longitude  and  of  latitude,  and  even 
continents  and  seas,  vanish  from  sight, 
and  all  because  his  own  life  suddenly 
seemed  but  vexed  nothingness.  He  had 
not  even  mellowed  into  age  as  had  Bev- 
ington.  He  was  as  sharp  and  as  rough- 
edged  as  an  Indian's  flint  arrow-head,  and 
he  knew  it. 

He  seated  himself  at  his  table.  Auto- 
matically he  was  about  to  take  up  the  first 
of  several  bundles  of  law-papers,  when  he 
was  startled  by  the  entrance  of  the  clerk. 
He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  his  re- 
awakened wonder  grew  the  more  when 
a  card  was  placed  before  him  upon  which 


THE   END   OF   THE   BEGINNING        83 


was  written,  in  a  dashing  hand,  "  From 
Mr.  Bevington." 

"A  gentleman  to  see  you,"  said  the 
clerk. 

"  What  does  he  look  like  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Maskelyne,  suspiciously. 

"Nobody  I  ever  saw  before,"  an- 
swered the  clerk  ;  "  and  he  seems  rather 
strange  about  his  clothes,"  he  added,  in 
a  rather  doubtful,  tentative  manner. 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  said  Mr.  Maske- 
lyne, after  a  moment's  pause. 

The  door  had  hardly  closed  upon  the 
vanishing  messenger  when  it  again  swung 
upon  its  hinges,  and  a  new  figure  stood 
in  relief  against  the  clearer  light  from 
without.  In  his  eagerness  to  see  of  what 
nature  a  being  so  introduced  might  be, 
Mr.  Maskelyne  turned  his  chair  com- 
pletely around,  and  silently  gazed  at 
the  new-comer  as  he  entered.  His  eyes 
fell  upon  a  slim,  graceful  young  man 
dressed  in  the  mode  of  at  least  forty-five 


84 


r>F    NE\V    YORK 


years  ago — a  mode  not  without  its  own 
good  tone  undoubtedly,  but  with  a  ten- 
dency toward  gorgeousness  which 
an  exquisite  of  these  days  of  as- 
sertive unobtru- 
siveness  might 
think  almost  vul- 
gar. His  whole 
attire  was  touched 
in  every  detail  with 
that  nameless 
something  which 
really  makes  the 
consummate  r  e  - 
suit  unattainable 
by  any  not  born 
to  such  excel- 
lence ;  but  in  the 
bright  intelligence 
shining  in  his  dark 
eves  and  the  clear 
intellectual  lines 
of  his  face,  even 


THE  END   OF   THE   BEGINNING        85 

Maskelyne  could  see  that  if  he  had  given 
much  thought  to  his  dress  it  was  only  from 
a  proper  self-respect,  and  not  because 
dress  was  the  ultimate  or  the  best  expres- 
sion of  what  he  was.  Few  could  look  into 
the  luminous  countenance  and  not  feel  a 
glow  of  sudden  sympathy  with  the  high  as- 
pirations, the  pure  disinterestedness,  the 
clear  intellect,  that  lit  up  and  strengthened 
his  features.  Even  the  old  lawyer,  disci- 
plined as  he  was  by  years  of  hard  ex- 
perience to  disregard  all  such  misleading 
impulses,  felt  his  heart  warm  toward  the 
young  man. 

"  I  hope,"  said  the  new-comer,  with  a 
smile  so  pleasant,  so  ingenuous,  so  con- 
fiding, that  all  Maskelyne's  ideas  of  de- 
ception— had  he  had  time  to  recognize 
them  in  the  moment  before  a  strange, 
unquestioning  acquiescence  took  com- 
plete possession  of  him — were  at  once 
dissipated,  "  that  I  do  not  intrude  too 
greatly  on  your  time." 


86  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

Won  really  in  spite  of  himself  by  the 
appearance  of  his  visitor,  the  famous 
counsellor  waved  his  hand  toward  a  chair. 

"  I  suppose,"  continued  the  stranger, 
with  an  almost  boyish  sweetness,  as  he 
seated  himself,  "that  Mr.  Bevington  has 
already  told  you  why  I  am  here." 

Mr.  Maskelyne  might  very  well  have 
answered  that  Mr.  Bevington  was  hardly 
to  be  looked  to  for  any  information  on 
any  subject,  but  he  did  not — the  wonder- 
ful circumstances  of  the  interview  had 
been  so  driven  from  his  mind  by  the  po- 
tent charm  of  the  young  man's  person- 
ality. 

"Mr."  —  and  he  paused  as  if  waiting 
for  enlightenment  as  to  the  name  of  the 
stranger. 

"  I'm  in  a  devil  of  a  scrape,"  continued 
the  young  man,  apparently  imagining 
that  the  letter  had  made  all  necessary  ex- 
planations, and  mentioning  the  devil  as 
though  he  was  an  every -day  acquaint- 


THE   END    OF   THE   BEGINNING        87 

ance,  a  pleasant  fellow  whom  he  had  just 
left  at  the  door  awaiting  his  return. 

''  Ah  !  "  murmured  the  lawyer. 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  see  you,"  continued 
the  other,  his  singularly  trustful  smile 
breaking  again  over  lip  and  cheek. 

"  Indeed,"  said  Maskelyne,  his  wits 
and  perceptions  in  most  confusing  en- 
tanglement. 

"  No,"  went  on  the  unaccountable  visi- 
tor. "  I  supposed  that  you  would  give 
me  what  the  world  calls  good  advice. 
But  I  don't  want  that.  I  want  to  hear 
something  better." 

He  laughed  aloud  in  such  a  joyous, 
cheery  fashion  that  the  old  lawyer  even 
smiled. 

"  You  don't  think  I  am  a  good  man  to 
come  to  for  bad  advice  ?  "  he  said. 

"  The  last  in  the  world.  I  don't  sup- 
pose that  you  ever  did  a  foolish  thing  in 
your  life." 

"  And  therefore  am  perhaps  less  com- 


88 


STORIES   OF    NEW    YORK 


patent  to  advise  others  who  have,"  re- 
plied Maskelyne,  half  heedlessly,  for  his 
thoughts  were  slowly  turning  in  a  new 
direction.  The  more  he  looked  the  more 
the  eager,  spirited  face  seemed  familiar. 
He  had  certainly  seen  the  young  fellow 
before,  but  where  ?  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  could  certainly  remember  in  a 
moment,  if  he  only  had  time  to  think. 

"  Mr.  Bevington  -  " 

"  Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Maskelyne, 
in  a  significant  tone,  "  you  said  Mr.  Bev- 
ington ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  stranger,  sud- 
denly looking  up  in  evident  surprise. 
"  Didn't  he  write?  " 

"  I  have  received  a  letter,"  said  the 
old  lawyer,  cautiously. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  making  some 
further  inquiries,  but  the  impulse  came 
to  nothing.  The  former  feeling  of  ac- 
quiescent but  expectant  apathy  again 
possessed  him  ;  indeed,  he  had  never 


THE  END    OF   THE   BEGINNING        89 

been  much  in  the  habit  of  asking  ques- 
tions. He  knew  that  he  often  learned 
more  than  was  suspected  even,  by  letting 
people  talk  on  in  their  own  way. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  and  he  paused  a 
moment — "I  am  very  much  in  debt." 
The  young  man  spoke  as  he  might  of 
taking  a  cold  asleep  in  the  open  air— as 
if  he  had  been  exposed  to  debt  and  had 
caught  it. 

The  first  look  of  sadness  rose  and 
deepened  over  his  face  as  he  shook  his 
head  dejectedly. 

"But  I'll  get  over  it — 'Time  and  I.' 
Don't  you  rather  like  the  astute  old  king 
after  all,  Mr.  Maskelyne  ?  " 

"By  your  own  exertions?"  asked  the 
lawyer,  dryly,  and  evading  the  question. 

"  I  write  a  little,"  replied  the  impeni- 
tent, modestly.  "  I  have  even  heard  of 
people  who  admired  some  of  my  verses." 

"  You  have  no  other  occupation  ?  " 

Old    Maskelyne    was    asking    enough 


90  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

questions  now.  Indeed,  under  the  magic 
of  the  stranger's  manner  he  had  quite 
forgotten  himself,  his  usual  caution,  and 
even  the  exceptional  manner  in  which  his 
companion  had  been  introduced  to  him. 

"Yes,"  the  other  admitted,  "I  am  a 
lawyer." 

"  Don't  you  think,"  said  the  older  man, 
answering  almost  instinctively,  "that  on 
the  whole  you  might  find  the  employ- 
ments of  the  law  more  remunerative  than 
the  calling  of  a — poet  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Maskelyne,  I  sometimes  think 
that  the  world  really  believes  in  the  sort 
of  thing  underlying  your  question — that 
there  is  wisdom  in  what  it  so  compla- 
cently repeats  as  indisputable.  And  I  am 
sent  here  phrase-gathering — to  carry  off 
small  packages  of  words  put  up  in  little 
flat,  portable  sentences,  alteratives  ready 
for  daily  use.  But  there  are  gains  you 
cannot  invest  in  lands  and  stocks — col- 
umns with  statues  at  the  top  as  well  as 


THE   END    OF   THE   BEGINNING        9! 


columns  whose  sums  are  at  the  bottom. 
Wasn't  '  Le  Barbier '  a  better  investment 
than  any  in  Roderigue  Hortales  et  Cie., 
and  what  could  John  Ballantyne  &  Co. 
show  beside  '  Guy  Mannering  ?  '  If  the 
world  says  what  it  does,  it  mustn't  do  as 
it  does.  It's  inconsistent.  Who  will  un- 
dertake to  strike  the  balance  between 
fame  and  fortune  ;  what  mathematician 
will  undertake  to  say  that  x,  the  unknown 
quantity  of  fame,  does  not  equal  the 
dollar-mark?  "  Then  he  added,  after  a 
moment's  pause, 
"Mr.  Maskelyne, 
don't  you  think  it  is 
true  that 

'•  '  One  crowded  hour  of 

glorious  life, 
Is  worth  a  world  with- 
out a  name,' — 

don't  you  really  ?  " 

It  was  hard  to  re- 
sist such  enthusiasm, 


92  STORIES    OF    NEW    YORK 

such  unquestioning  certainty.  The  old 
lawyer  did  not  even  smile  as  he  lay  back 
in  his  chair,  a  new  life  shooting  through 
every  nerve,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  flush- 
ing face  of  the  young  man. 

"  And  the  consciousness  of  best  em- 
ploying the  best  that  is  in  you,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  Who  dare  shorten  the  reach 
or  blunt  the  nicety  of  man's  wit,  make 
purblind  the  imagination,  stiffen  the  cun- 
ning hand  ?  Tell  men  that  in  some  In- 
dian sea,  fathoms  deep,  lie  hid  forever 
Spanish  galleons  in  which  doubloons  and 
moidores,  as  when  honey  more  than  fills 
the  comb,  almost  drip  from  their  sacks, 
and  you  will  see  in  their  sudden  thought- 
fulness  how  quickly  they  appreciate  such 
loss  ;  tell  them,  if  you  can,  what,  through 
poverty,  erring  endeavor,  uncongenial 
occupation,  the  world  with  each  year 
loses  in  intellectual  riches,  and  they  will 
stand  heedless." 

Speaking  with  the  incomparable  confi- 


THE   END    OF   THE   BEGINNING        93 


dence  of  youth,  its  own  glorious  nonsense, 
the  young  man's  voice  sent  old  Maske- 
lyne's  blood  hastening  through  his  veins 
in  almost  audible  pulsations. 

"  What  if  I  do  not  wish  great  wealth," 
the  speaker  continued,  "  must  I  be  made 
to  have  it  ?  I  want  but  little.  Give  me 
food,  clothing,  habitation,  sufficient  that 
my  eyes  may  see  the  delights  this  world 
has  to  show,  that  my  ears  may  catch  the 
whispered  harmonies  of  all  things  beauti- 
ful, gladden  me  with  the  radiance  of  com- 
mon joy,  and  that's  all  I  want.  Who  is 
unreasonable  when  what  he  wants  is  all 
he  wants  ?  Are  the  worldly  so  insecure 
that,  as  the  frightened  kings  sought  to 
still  beneath  their  tread  the  first  throb  of 
the  French  Revolution,  they  must  stamp 
out  the  first  symptom  of  revolt  against 
the  almighty  dollar  ? 

"  '  Chi  si  diverte  di  poco,  &  ricco  di  molto.' 
Mr.    Maskelyne,   must  I  eat  when   I  am 


94  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

only  thirsty,  drink  when  I  am  only  hun- 
gry ?" 

He  paused,  and  glanced  triumphant- 
ly at  the  old  man.  He  felt  in  some  se- 
cret, instinctive  way  that  he  was  gain- 
ing ground.  A  squadron  of  fauns  had 
charged  from  amid  the  vine- leaves,  and 
the  legion  upon  the  highway  was  in  rout. 
Fine  sense  was  victorious  for  the  moment 
over  common  sense. 

"  I  think,"  said  Maskelyne,  at  last,  and 
with  a  strange,  sad,  patient  air,  unwearied, 
however,  by  the  young  man's  dithyram- 
bic,  sometimes  almost  incoherent  speech, 
"  I  think  I  cannot  attempt  to  advise  you. 
Having  discarded  the  wisdom  of  ages, 
what  heed  will  you  give  the  wisdom  of 
age  ?  " 

A  cloud  seemed  to  cast  its  shadow  over 
the  other's  face.  Could  it  be  that,  lost 
in  himself,  he  had  spoken  almost  in  pre- 
sumptuous disrespect  to  a  man  so  dis- 
tinguished, to  a  man  whom  he  honored 


THE   END    OF   THE   BEGINNING        95 

and  whom  he  felt  that  he  could  even 
like? 

"  If  I  speak  strongly,"  he  said,  "it  is 
because  I  feel  strongly.  If  I  did  not  feel 
strongly  I  would  not  attempt  to  with- 
stand the  amount  of  testimony  against 
me." 

"  Might  I  ask,"  said  Maskelyne,  gently, 
in  his  inexplicable  sympathy  with  the 
young  fellow,  "  why,  if  you  feel  such  con- 
fidence in  all  you  say,  you  do  not,  without 
'  hesitation,  enter  on  a  life  in  accordance 
with  your  convictions  ?  " 

At  last  there  was  hesitation  in  the  young 
stranger's  manner.  He  turned  his  hat 
nervously  in  his  hand,  and  sat  silent  for  a 
moment. 

"  You  see,"  he  began,  paused,  and  be- 
gan again — "  You  see,  if  I  were  alone  it 
would  be  one  thing.  But  I'm  not — not  at 
all  alone,"  he  added,  evidently  gaining 
confidence. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed   the   old    lawyer,    a 


96  STORIES    OF    NEW    YORK 

sudden  gleam  of  new  intelligence  shining 
in  his  dull,  weary  old  eyes. 

"  And  how  am  I  to  get  married,  Mr. 
Maskelyne  ?  " 

"  The  lady  does  not  approve  of  your — 
poetic  aspirations  ?  " 

"  Not  approve  !  "  cried  the  young  fel- 
low, eagerly  ;  "  she  has  made  me  promise 
that  I  will  give  nothing  up,  that  I  will 
refuse  all  Mr.  Bevington  has  arranged 
for  me.  You  can't  tell  how  inspiring  our 
misery  is.  And  our  courage, — a  young 
Froissart  must  be  our  chronicler,  sir.  We 
take  our  sorrows  gladly." 

•'And  may  I  ask " 

"  Anything,  anything,"  interrupted  the 
young  man,  gayly.  "I'm  sent  here  to  be 
talked  out  of  what  they  may  call  my  folly. 
You  see  I  can't  be  talked  out  of  it.  Don't 
that  prove  that  it  is  no  folly  ?  " 

"  You  seem,"  said  Maskelyne,  dryly, 
"to  have  settled  it  between  you  —  you 
and  she." 


THE    END   OF   THE    BEGINNING        97 


"  Settled  it !  We  did  not  need  help 
about  that.  It's  the  unsettling.  There 
comes  a  time  when  friends  are  the  worst 
enemies.  You  know  that,  Mr.  Maske- 
lyne  ?  " 

The  old  lawyer  paused.  "  Indeed  I 
do,"  he  said  at  last,  and  the  sneer  stealing 
over  the  outlines  of  his  face  slunk  away  be- 
fore the  look  of  regret  that  came  swiftly  on. 
Almost  in  embarrassment,  with  nervous 
hand,  he  shuffled  the  papers  on  his  table. 

Far  back  in  the  past,  when  his  eyes 
were  not  yet  dimmed  by  the  dust  blown 
from  law-books,  nor  his  ears  deadened  by 
the  stridulent  clamor  of  litigation  before 
his  life  had  gone  in  attempts  at 

"  Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our  law," 
or  he  had  lost  himself  in 

"That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent, 

That  wilderness  of  single  instances  :  " 

when  he,  too,   dwelt  in  that  other-world 
of  the  young,  forgotten  by  everyone  but 


98  STORIES   OF   NEW    YORK 

himself,  but,  although  hardly  ever  remem- 
bered, never  forgotten  by  him — not  one 
grain  of  its  golden  sand,  not  one  drop  of 
its  honey-dew,  not  one  tremor  of  its  slight- 
est thrill — then  even  he  had  had  his  ro- 
mance. The  freshness  of  the  early  spring 
morning,  the  airy  brightness  of  his  young 
visitor,  himself  no  bad  exponent  of  the  day, 
the  awe-footed  shadow  which,  with  almost 
unrecognized  obtrusion,  skirts  the  border 
where  the  ripened  grain  fills  the  field  of 
life  and  nods  to  the  ready  sickle — was  it 
something  of  such  kind,  or  was  it  the  sim- 
ple story  of  which  he  had  had  such  telling 
intimation,  that  brought  it  all  up  in  mem- 
ory's half-tender  glow  ?  He,  too,  had  once 
been  in  love.  He,  too,  had  written  verses 
to  his  inamorata.  He  remembered  it  all 
now,  with  a  smile  of  mingled  pity  and 
contempt  It  needed  no  ransacking  of  the 
brain  now  to  quicken  into  full  view  his 
own  "  It  might  have  been  " — to  people 
once  more  the  mystic  world  whose  first 


THE   END    OF   THE    BEGINNING        99 

paradise  is  rich  in  the  slight  garniture  of 
glances  and  sighs  and  smiles  and  tears. 
Lost  in  himself,  the  old  man  forgot  his 
visitor. 

"  You  are  very  young,"  he  said  at  last, 
absently. 

"  Twenty-three,"  was  the  answer. 

''  And  she  ?  " 

"  Eighteen." 

It  was  strange,  but  he,  too,  had  been 
twenty-three  and  she  eighteen  when  the 
end  came  in  that  glimmering,  gleaming 
past.  He  remembered,  and  how  strange 
the  recollection  seemed,  taking  her  some 
flowers  and  some  slight  silver  gift — a  poor, 
inexpensive  thing  ;  she  would  let  him  give 
no  more  because  he,  too,  was  in  debt — on 
her  birthday.  And  now,  with  strange  re- 
vulsion, he  hardened  almost  into  his  hab- 
itual self,  and  grimly  thought  that  it  all 
was  youthful  nonsense,  and  that  all  such 
follies  were  very  much  alike.  Had  he 
spoken,  he  would  have  been  guilty  of 


100  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

one  of  those  faults  often  packed  with  er- 
ror, an  apothegm  —  he  would  have  said 
that  we  only  become  original,  even  in  our 
folly,  as  age  gives  us  character. 

"  We  could  be  so  happy  with  so  little," 
said  the  youthful  lover. 

The  old  man  started.  These  were  his 
own  words  many,  many  years  ago  ;  his 
very  words  to  his  guardian  when  the  final 
appeal  was  made  by  old  Bevington  to 
what  he  called  his  better  judgment  so 
very,  very  long  ago,  in  the  dark,  stately 
house  upon  Second  Avenue. 

"  So  very  little,"  repeated  the  young 
man.  "  I  have  always  said,"  he  contin- 
ued, as  pleased  with  the  conceit  as  if  it 
had  never  before  glittered  in  the  song  of 
finches  of  his  feather,  "  that  we  should 
have  gold  enough  in  her  hair." 

"And  is  her  hair  golden?"  asked 
Maskelyne,  and,  startled  by  the  sound  of 
such  words  dropped  from  the  lips  of  the 
distinguished  counsel  for  many  a  soulless 


THE  END   OF  THE   BEGINNING     IOI 

corporation  and  many  as  soulless  a  man, 
he  added,  hurriedly,  "  light."  And  then 
the  old  lawyer  remembered  that  he  too, 
had  a  lock  of  hair  that  he  had  not  sent 
back  when  he  returned  her  letters  and  her 


102  STORIES   OF    NEW    YORK 

picture.  How  bright  it  was  !  What  had 
become  of  it  ?  Where  was  it  ?  In  what 
pigeon-hole,  what  secret  drawer  ?  He 
could  not  for  the  moment  remember.  He 
looked  out  of  the  window.  How  bright 
the  sunshine  was  !  How  empty  the  world  ! 
It  seemed  to  build  up  its  vacancy  around 
him  as  a  wall. 

"  And  she,  of  course,  has  no  money  ?  " 
he  said,  turning  again. 

"  None." 

He  had  been  sure  of  it.  He  rose  and 
went  to  the  window.  The  joyful  attributes 
of  the  morning  were  there,  but  they  were 
no  longer  joyful  to  him.  The  light  fell  in 
the  same  broad  flood,  still  promising  the 
glory  of  summer,  the  ripened  harvest,  but 
there  was  no  promise  for  him.  The  spar- 
rows preluded  still  the  full-voiced  singers 
of  the  year,  when  leaves  are  heavy  with 
the  dust  and  brooks  run  dry,  but  he  heard 
only  a  quick,  petulant  twitter.  A  sort  of 
dull  despondency  suddenly  settled  upon 


THE  END    OF    THE   BEGINNING      103 

him.  He  forgot  his  visitor,  and  even  time 
and  place.  Amid  the  glimmering  lights 
and  shaking  shadows  of  the  past  he  sought 
a  vision,  as  at  twilight  one  seeks  in  some 
deserted  corridor  a  statue  which  would 
seem  to  have  so  taken  into  its  gjrain  the 
last  rays  of  the  already  sunken  sun  that 
the  marble  glows  in  the  gathering  dark- 
ness with  a  radiance  not  its  own. 

The  young  man  grew  impatient  as  the 
revery  was  prolonged.  He  stirred  un- 
easily. The  old  lawyer  turned  and  looked 
curiously  at  him.  Of  course,  of  course  ! 
Was  a  man  to  be  changed,  the  bone  of 
what  he  was  to  have  its  marrow  drawn, 
the  fibre  of  every  muscle  to  be  untwisted, 
by  this  nonsense  of  a  boy  ?  Of  course 
old  Bevington  was  right — and  for  the  mo- 
ment he  did  not  remember  that  Bevington 
was  dead — in  sending  the  young  fool  to 
such  a  cool  old  hand  as  himself.  But  if 
Bevington  had  known  what  a  turbulence 
of  disappointment,  discontent,  and  revolt 


104  STORIES    OF    NEW   YORK 

had  risen,  and  poured  in  strength-gather- 
ing torrent,  even  at  that  instant,  through 
his  heart,  would  he  not  have  kept  his 
young  charge  away  ?  He  would  talk  to 
him — certainly  he  would — pave  his  way 
for  him,  perhaps,  as  with  flagstones  of 
wisdom.  Perhaps-  and  then  he  thought 
with  grim  satisfaction  of  what  Bevington 
might  think  should  he  learn  that  he  recog- 
nized that  there  were  other  paths  than 
those  edged  by  a  curbstone. 

"  You  have  been  sent  to  me,"  he  said, 
very  seriously,  coming  from  the  window 
and  leaning  with  both  hands  on  the  table, 
"  for  advice  and  admonition.  I  will  give 
my  lesson  in  sternest  characters.  I  will 
teach  by  example,  but  I  may  not  teach 
what  you  were  sent  here  to  learn.  "When 
I  was  young  as  you — do  not  start,  I  was 
young  once,"  and  he  spoke  with  infinite 
sadness,  "  I  loved  as  you  love,  and,  as 
with  you,  love  was  returned.  They  who 
called  themselves  my  friends  strove,  with 


io6 


STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 


what  they  called  reason,  to  tear  me  from 
\vhaftheycalledmyfolly.  My  folly !  It 
was  the  wisdom  that  it  takes  all  that  is 
blent  into  humanity,  at  supremest  mo- 
ments, to  attain  ;  their  reason,  the  fatu- 
ous folly  only  enough  to  give  habitual  stir 
to  an  earth-beclotted  brain  !  I  yielded, 
as  you  have  not  yielded.  I  killed  out 
even  the  natural  impulses  of  my  nature. 
Gradually  almost  new  instincts  came,  de- 
sire for  delight  sank  into  appetite  for  gain, 
hope  for  the  joy  of  higher  existence  was 
lost  in  the  ambition  for  mere  advance- 
ment. I  wrought  out  in  myself  that  fear- 
ful piece  of  handiwork  whose  every  effort 
is  but  to  grasp  the  worthless  handful  man 
can  only  wrest  from  the  mere  world.  I 
lost,  and  I  have  not  won.  I  was  a  man 
and  I  am  only  a  lawyer,  and  to  him  you 
have  been  sent  for  advice.  I  can  find  no 
precedent  better,  no  authority  more 
weighty  for  your  guidance  than  my  own 
life.  Such  strength  as  enabled  me  to 


THE  END    OF   THE   BEGINNING      107 


work  such  a  change  will  also  enable  you 
to  make  yourself  a  new  being,  to  accom- 
plish self-overthrow,  to  bring  you  to  what  I 
am — a  man  rich,  successful,  courted,  re- 
vered— most  miserable.  He  who  has  so 
won,  so*  lost,  stands  alone  or  he  would  not 
so  win.  Choose  rather  the  close  compan- 
ionship of  worldly  defeat,  if  it  must  be,  and 
I  say  to  you  in  the  rapture  of  your  youth, 
clay  plastic  to  the  moment's  touch,  hold 
to  yourself,  and  believe  that  no  fame,  no 
power,  no  wealth,  can  compensate  for  a 
contentious  life,  an  empty  heart,  a  deso- 
late old  age.  If  I  were  you " 

He  did  not  finish.  Slowly  the  young 
stranger  rose  to  his  full  height,  every  lin- 
eament of  his  face  clear  in  cold  light.  His 
whole  aspect  was  one  of  steadfast  com- 
mand. 

"  Stop  !  "  he  cried,  in  astern  tone.  "  I 
am  yourself.  No  ghost  walks  save  that 
which  is  what  a  man  might  have  been. 
We  throng  the  world.  Beside  everyone 


J08  STORIES   OF   NEW    YORK 

through  life  moves  the  image  of  a  past 
potentiality,  the  thing  he  could  have  be- 
come had  he  held  along  another  course. 
I  am  what  you  were,  the  promise  of  what 
you  might  have  been.  For  forty  years  I 
have  walked  by  your  side.  I  have  touched 
you  and  you  have  shuddered,  I  have 
chilled  you  and  you  have  shrunk  from  me. 
Your  nature  has  so  grown  athwart,  all  im- 
pulse has  been  so  long  gone,  all  that  soft- 
ens or  ennobles  so  thrown  off  that,  in  al- 
most final  self-assertion,  what  you  really 
were  or  might  have  been  stands  by  your 
side  and  bids  you  measure  stature  with 
itself.  Your  life  has  entered  upon  its  win- 
try days,  but  sunlight  is  sunshine  even  in 
December  and  in  youth." 

The  old  lawyer,  almost  shuddering, 
stepped  back  with  repelling  gesture.  He 
passed  his  hand  quickly  across  his  eyes, 
and  then,  as  if  his  heart  had  beat  recall, 
summoning  back  every  retreating  force  in 
quick  rally,  compelled  but  not  unwilling, 


THE   END    OF   THE   BEGINNING      109 

he  turned  in  combative  instinct  to  meet 
the  stranger  face  to  face,  nature  to  nature, 
turned — and  found  himself  alone. 

Once  more  the  clerk  opened  the  door. 

"Eleven  o'clock,  sir,"  he  said,  "and 
you  know  the  General  Term  this  morn- 
ing  " 

"  You  saw  the  gentleman  who  just  went 
out?  "  asked  the  lawyer. 

"I,  sir,"  answered  the  man  ;  "  I  saw  no 
one  go  out." 

"  No  one  ?  " 

"  No  one." 

"  You  certainly  brought  me  a  card  and 
showed  a  young  gentleman  in  a  few  min- 
utes ago  ?  " 

"I,  sir!"  repeated  the  clerk.  "I 
brought  in  a  card  and  showed  a  young 
gentleman  in !  Aren't  you  well  this  morn- 
ing, sir?  " 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Maskelyne,  stern- 

iy. 

As  soon   as    he  was    again    alone    he 


110  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

stepped  to  the  table.  The  card  and  the 
letter  were  gone.  And  still  he  knew  he 
had  not  been  dreaming.  A  man  swung 
high  in  the  air  was  busy  painting  a  sign 
upon  a  building  not  far  away,  and  he  was 
conscious  that  all  through  the  strange  in- 
terview he  had  watched  him  at  work.  He 
had  seen  him  finish  one  letter  and  then 
another,  and  now  if  he  found  him  adding 
the  final  consonant  he  would  be  assured 
that  he  could  not  have  been  asleep.  He 
looked  up  and  found  that  he  was  right. 
The  man  had  just  made  the  heavy  shaded 
side  and  was  busy  putting  the  little  fin- 
ishing line  at  the  bottom  of  the  let- 
ter. 

Two  men — one  of  rotund  middle  age, 
the  other  younger  but  yet  not  young — 
came  down  the  steps  of  the  Union  Club 
one  day  a  few  weeks  later.  They  met 
an  old  man  rounding  the  corner  of  the 
Avenue. 


THE   END    OF   THE    BEGINNING      III 

"  See  what  you  would  come  to  if  you 
had  your  own  way,"  said  the  elder  of  the 
two.  "  There's  old  Maskelyne.  He's 
got  everything  you're  making  yourself 
wretched  to  get.  Do  you  want  to  be  like 
him  ?  " 

"No,"  said  the  other.  "Then  yon 
haven't  heard  ?  " 

"  Heard  what  ?  " 

"  He's  a  changed  man,  all  within  a 
month." 

"  Has  his  brain  or  his  heart  soft- 
ened ?  " 

"  As  you  look  at  life,"  said  the  younger. 
''  He  has  sent  for  that  clever,  improvident, 
gracefully  graceless  good-fellow  of  a  good- 
for-nothing,  his  nephew,  him  and  his 
pretty-handed,  big-eyed  wife — he  hadn't 
seen  either  of  them  since  they  ran  away 
and  were  married — sent  for  them  and  put 
them  in  his  great,  old  house  and — didn't 
you  hear  Maceration  growling  about  the 
luck  some  people  have  just  before  we 


112  STORIES    OF    NEW   YORK 

left  ?     He  says  the  nephew  will  have  all 
the  old  man's  property." 

"What's  the  world  coming  to?"  said 
the  senior,  "  or  what  is  coming  to  the 
world  ?  " 


A  PURITAN  INGENUE 

BY  JOHN  SEYMOUR  WOOD 


I. 

THE  Archibald  house,  on  West  Forty- 
—  Street,  was  of  the  character  described 
as  a  "  modernized  front."  A  handsome 
arch  in  rough  stone  surmounted  the  front- 
door, which  was  done  in  polished  oak  and 
plate-glass.  The  stoop  was  on  a  level 
with  the  sidewalk ;  a  richly  carved  bow- 
window  jutted  out  from  the  second  story. 
"  No.  41,"  in  old  iron  open  work,  formed 


n6 


STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 


a  pretty  grating  above  the  door.  There 
was,  in  fact,  nothing  which  would  lead  an 
ordinary  person  to  conceive  of  the  house 
as  given  over  to  boarders,  except,  pos- 
sibly, the  sign, 


TO   LET, 

FURNISHED. 

which  was  posted  conspicuously  below 
the  first-story  window,  and  at  an  angle 
which  enabled  him  that  ran  to  read. 

Old  Mr.  Archibald's  death,  the  autumn 
before,  had  left  his  widow  rather  poorer 
than  she  anticipated.  He  was  a  great 
collector  of  pretty  things.  His  taste  was 
exquisite,  and  he  had  gratified  it  by  fill- 
ing his  house  with  a  variety  of  bric-a- 
brac,  pictures,  statuary,  and  old  furni- 
ture, which  made  it  a  centre  of  attraction 
to  many  of  the  old  gentleman's  artistic 
friends.  Mrs.  Archibald,  loath  to  dis- 
pose of  her  husband's  art  collections,  de- 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE 


117 


termined  to  let  the  house,  as  it  stood,  "  at 
an  exorbitant  figure,  to  a  very  rich  tenant 
without  children  "  Under  these  terms, 
on  her  departure  for  Europe,  her  agent 
was  entrusted  with  the  house,  and  her 
son  Jerome,  when  he  saw  her  off  on  the 
steamer,  received  a  parting  injunction, 
"  Be  sure  and  see  that  they  have  no 
children."  Jerome  Archibald  saw  his 
mother  and  sisters  depart — in  no  very  en- 
viable frame  of  mind  ;  but  he  was  a  good 
son,  and  he  resolved  to  forego  Newport, 
if  it  would  tend  to  dispose  of  the  house  as 
his  mother  wished,  and  add  to  her  dimin- 
ished income. 

His  mother  and  sisters  sailed  in  May. 
It  was  now  July,  and  very  warm  and  dis- 
agreeable. As  the  "heated  term"  set 
in,  he  began  to  think  it  too  bad,  you 
know,  of  mamma  and  the  girls  to  remain 
abroad  for  three  whole  years.  It  was 
positively  absurd.  What  was  he  to  do  ? 
After  the  house  was  let — where  was  he 


Il8  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

to  go  ?  By  Jove,  lie  felt  deuced  lonely, 
don't  you  know  !  It  was  especially  trying 
for  a  sensitive  man  to  go  in  and  out  of  a 
house  with  a  great  placard  on  it,  "To 
Let,  Furnished,"  but  it  was  a  deal  more 
trying  to  have  people  come  and  want 
board.  Yes,  actually,  two  ladies  came 
one  morning  and  wanted  to  know  if  they 
could  see  the  landlord.  It  was  positively 
ridiculous !  His  agent  was  a  clevah  fel- 
low, but  even  he  gave  up  hope  of  letting 
the  house  until  fall.  Hadn't  he  better 
run  down  to  Newport  ?  He  got  a  letter 
from  Dick  Trellis  that  morning,  and  they 
really  didn't  see  how  they  were  going  to 
get  on  without  him  in  the  polo  matches. 
It  put  him  in  a  fuming  fury.  He  had 
never  stayed  late  in  the  city  in  summer 
before.  How  infernally  hot  it  was— and 
nahsty— don't  you  know !  His  collars 
were  in  a  perpetual  state  of  wilt — they 
never  wilted  at  Newport.  Then  every- 
body was  not  only  out  of  town,  having  a 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE  119 

good  time  somewhere,  but  they  had  a  pro- 
voking way  now  of  ostentatiously  board- 
ing up  their  front-doors—yes — and  their 
windows,  too — which  made  it  doubly  dis- 
agreeable for  those  who  had  to  remain. 
It  was  bad  enough  to  see  the  blinds 
drawn  down,  but  boxing  up  their  stone- 
work and  planking  up  their  front-doors 
caused  Mr.  Jerome  Archibald  unutter- 
able pangs.  Then  they  thought  it  was 
a  boarding-house  ! 

They  were  coming  again  in  the  after- 
noon, at  four.  There  were  two  of  them 
— ladies.  In  his  rather  depressing  and 
solitary  occupation  of  living  alone  in  his 
house,  with  one  solemn  apoplectic  cook 
and  one  chalk-faced  maid,  in  order  to  ex- 
hibit it  to  that  endless  raft  of  females  with 
"  permits,"  who  universally  condemned 
or  "damned  with  faint  praise"  his  fa- 
ther's exquisite  taste  in  rugs  and  furni- 
ture, Mr.  Jerome  Archibald  had  to-day 
admitted  to  himself  a  distinct  pleasure  in 


120  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

showing  "  Miss  Perkins  "  and  her  niece 
(whose  name  did  not  happen  at  the  time 
to  be  mentioned)  over  the  house,  and 
pointing  out  in  his  quiet  way  its  excel- 
lences. 

They  saw  the  sign,  they  said,  and  so 
made  bold  to  enter.  Evidently  Miss  Per- 
kins was  a  prim,  thin,  tall,  spectacled, 
New  England  old  maid.  She  had  the 
delicate  air  and  manner  of  a  lady.  A  lady 
faded,  perhaps,  and  unused  to  a  larger 
social  area  than  that  surrounding  her  na- 
tive village  green.  She  had  also  the  timid 
manner  of  hesitancy  of  New  England 
spinsters  —  hesitancy  concerning  every- 
thing except  questions  of  casuistry  and 
religion — and  seemed,  in  what  she  did,  to 
be  spurred  on  from  behind  by  the  niece, 
who  was,  on  the  whole,  as  Mr.  Jerome 
Archibald  told  a  friend  at  the  club  later, 
"  quite  extraordinary." 

In  the  first  place,  as  he  said,  the  niece 
was  undeniably  beautiful 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE 


"  She  wore  rawther  an  odd  street 
dress,"  he  said,  "  made  up  in  the  country 
somewhere,  by  a  seamstress  who  gathered 
her  crude  notions  of  the  prevailing  fash- 
ions from  some  prevaricating  ladies'  jour- 
nal, and  her  hat  was  something  positively 
ridiculous — but  her  face!"  The  fastidi- 
ous Mr.  Jerome  Archibald  at  once  con- 
ceded to  it  a  certain  patrician  quality  of 
elegance.  It  denoted  pure  blood  and 
pure  breeding,  somewhere  up  among  Ver- 
mont hills  or  Maine  forests.  A  long  line 
of  "intelligent  ancestors,"  perhaps.  It 
was  fine,  and — beautiful.  The  forehead 
high,  nose  straight,  the  large  eyes  gray, 
the  mouth  and  chin  sweet,  and  yet  quite 
determined.  When  he  showed  them  a 
large  room  at  the  rear,  on  the  second 
story,  facing  the  north,  the  niece  had  ob- 
served, with  a  lofty  air — mind,  the  room 
was  literally  crammed  with  the  most  costly 
bric-a-brac — ' '  I  think  this  will  suit  me  very 
well,  aunt  dear,  on  account  of  the  light." 


122  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

He  noticed  in  her  unfashionable  dress  a 
certain  artistic  sense  of  freedom,  a  soup^on 
of  colored  ribbon  here  and  there,  and  he 
concluded  that  she  was  all  the  more  inter- 
esting, as  an  artist,  in  that  she  so  quietly 
accepted  the  elegancies  around  her.  She 
gave  an  unconscious  sigh  over  a  small 
glass-covered  "  Woodland  Scene,"  by 
Duprez.  Mr.  Jerome  Archibald  noticed 
it,  and  inwardly  smiled,  delighted. 

Perhaps  the  niece  captivated  him  the 
more  by  her  silent  appreciation  of  some 
things  he  himself  admired  exceedingly. 
It  was  odd  that  she  seemed  always  to 
choose  his  favorites.  There  was  nothing 
said  as  to  the  rent,  the  size  of  the  house, 
the  lot,  the  plumbing.  He  spent  an  hour 
showing  his  etchings  alone,  and  in  the 
afternoon,  at  four,  they  were  coming 
again,  "  to  decide." 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  123 


II. 

OF  course  Mr.  Jerome  Archibald  must 
have  been  an  extremely  susceptible  young 
man  to  have  fallen  in  love  at  first  sight 
with  a  strange  young  woman,  who  had 
come  to  look  at  his  house  with  a  view  to 
renting.  But  he  was — "  rawther  down 
and  depressed. "  The  usual  summer  ma- 
laria had  set  in.  The  usual  excavations 
in  the  streets  were  going  on — they  were 
digging  with  "  really  extraordinary  en- 
ergy "  that  summer — the  pavements  were 
up  on  all  the  Fortieth  streets.  Fifth 
Avenue  presented  the  appearance  of  a 
huge  empty  canal.  It  was  something 
more,  this  presidential  year,  than  the  per- 
ennial laying  down  and  taking  up  of  pipes. 
"  He  was  really  ripe  for  unegrande  affaire 
du  cceur,"  said  one  of  his  club  friends,  he 
was  getting  so  lonesome.  He  did  fall 
quite  entirely  in  love,  precipitately,  un- 


124  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

questionably,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they 
took  the  house  for  a  boarding-place ! 
They  asked  to  hire  but  one  room  only. 

When  they  arrived,  at  4  P.  M.,  they  sat 
a  few  moments  in  the  reception-room, 
•  while  the  chalk-faced,  alert  maid  an- 
nounced them  to  Archibald  in  the  room 
above.  Miss  Perkins  folded  her  faded, 
gloved  hands  in  her  lap  and  sat  up  on  the 
sofa  stiffly.  They  had  looked  at  ever  so 
many  houses,  and  they  had  come  back  to 
No.  41  with  instinctive  preference. 

11  I  don't  think  one  room  would  be  so 
very  expensive,"  said  Miss  Perkins. 
"  He  could  put  up  two  beds  easily  in 
that  north  room,  and  the  room  we  saw 
on  Thirty-fourth  Street  was  only  twelve 
dollars — what  do  you  think,  Elvira  ?  " 

"  I  think  twelve  dollars  is  altogether 
too  high,"  said  the  niece,  looking  up 
from  a  delicate  little  Elzevir  she  was 
holding.  "  I  think  he  wants  to  let  the 
rooms  very  much  ;  none  of  them  seem 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE 


125 


to  be  taken.  Remember  it  is  midsum- 
mer, aunt  dear." 

There  was  a  little  pause. 

"  Of  course  he  will  prefer  having  nice 
people.  It  will  be  a  great  help  to  your 
art,  Elvira — you  can  study  at  great  ad- 
vantage. There  are  so  many  pictures 
for  you  to  copy.  I  think  your  father 
would  say  it  was  a  '  lucky  find.'  If  you 
will  persist  in  your  art,  why,  I  think 
we  are  very  fortunate." 

"  You  are  always  $eady  to  sneer  at 
my  art,  Aunt  Perkins."  And  she  gave  a 
peculiar  laugh. 

"It  is  something  that  has  come  up 
since  my  day,"  she  replied,  glancing 
about  over  the  pictures  and  the  rare 
editions  on  the  table.  "  I  was  brought 
up  to  plain  living.  But  I  guess  if  we 
can  get  it  all  for  twelve  dollars  we 
ought  to  be  satisfied.  It's  a  pleasant 
change  to  see  the  city.  It's  pleasant 
to  see  these  ornaments.  Yes,  I  don't 


126  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

blame  art  so  much  as  your  father  does, 
Elvira,  and  I  don't  believe  he  would 
blame  it  if  he  knew  we  could  have  so 
much  of  it  for  twelve  dollars." 

"  Father  secretly  admires  it  as  much 
as  I  do,"  said  the  niece  ;  "  only  he  likes 
to  talk." 

Just  then  Mr.  Jerome  Archibald  en- 
tered. He  was  faultlessly  dressed  in 
half-mourning  for  his  father.  Indeed, 
he  had  dressed  himself  with  exceeding 
care,  being  desirous,  he  frankly  admitted 
to  himself,  of  making  an  impression. 
He  bowed  graciously,  and  took  Elvira's 
extended  gloved  hand,  which,  as  she 
offered  it,  he  held  a  moment  "  Have 
you  decided  ?  "  he  asked. 

They  had  explained,  when  they  left  in 
the  morning,  that  they  should  want  only 
one  room,  and  he  tacitly  inferred  that 
they  would  require  board.  He  received 
a  dreadful  shock,  but  made  up  his  mind 
that  the  charming  niece  would  prove  the 


A  PURITAN   INGENUE  127 

more  charming  on  closer  acquaintance, 
and  he  deliberately  decided  to  keep  both 
the  gentle  New  Englanders  under  his 
roof  for  a  time,  if  he  could !  The  more 
he  thought  of  the  plan,  the  more  inter- 
esting the  situation  became  to  him.  He 
fairly  dreaded,  at  last,  lest  they  should 
find  their  way  into  a  remote  boarding- 
house  in  some  cheap  quarter  of  the  city, 
where  it  would  be  quite  impossible  for 
him  to  follow  them.  He  gravely  an- 
nounced to  the  astonished  maid  that 
he  had  determined  to  let  out  the  rooms 
to  the  ladies,  who,  he  pretended  for 
her  benefit,  were  old  acquaintances. 
When  they  were  announced  he  was 
scarcely  able  to  conceal  his  pleasure. 
Mr.  Jerome  Archibald  had  fallen  in 
love. 

"We  have  decided  to  take  one  room,", 
said  Elvira,  "if  we  can  agree  upon  the 
price ;  and  we  wish  to  know  the  price  of 
board " 


128  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

"We  shan't  want  much  to  eat,"  put  in 
Miss  Perkins,  with  a  nervous  twitch. 

Archibald  admirably  concealed  a  smile. 
His  long  mustache  aided  him  a  good 
deal  in  doing  this.  He  was  still  stand- 
ing, and  he  put  his  hand  to  his  lips:  "  I 
think  we  shall  agree  very  easily  upon 
the  price,"  he  said. 

Miss  Perkins  again  twitched  a  little. 
' '  We  thought  twelve  dollars — room  and 

board "  she  said,  leaving  the  sentence 

half  finished,  while  Elvira  looked  up  at 
him,  expectantly. 

"  My  dear  ladies,  I  should  not  think 
of  charging  more  than  ten.  You  are 
strangers  in  the  city,  and  I  would  not 
impose  upon  you  for  the  world.  It  hap- 
pens that  this  is  the  dull  season " 

"  So  we  thought,"  said  Miss  Perkins, 
"  and  board  and  lodging  ought  to  come 
a  little  cheaper." 

"  Precisely.  The  maid  will  show  you 
your  sleeping-room — and,  of  course,  the 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  129 

entire  house  is  at  your  service.  I  hope 
you  will  find  everything  to  your  com- 
fort. I  am  very  anxious  to  please."  He 
laughed  a  little. 

Elvira  gave  him  a  grateful,  but  at  the 
same  time  a  rather  patronizing,  glance. 
He  felt  at  once  that  in  carrying  out  his 
Tittle  ruse  he  had  placed  himself  deliber- 
ately upon  a  questionable  footing  with 
the  beautiful  girl.  He  hoped,  however, 
to  redeem  himself  by  impressing  her 
with  his  knowledge  of  the  pursuit  which, 
he  accurately  judged,  had  brought  the 
ladies  to  the  city.  Archibald  had  at  one 
time  done  a  little  painting  himself.  He 
had  dreamed  dreams,  as  a  young  man, 
which  indolence  and  the  stern  business 
atmosphere  of  the  city  had  choked  off 
prematurely.  As  he  looked  down  upon 
the  girl's  sweet  gray  eyes  a  vision  of 
this  youthful  period  came  back  to  him. 
Twenty-two  and  thirty-two  have  this  in 
common,  that  the  latter  age  is  not  too 


130  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

far  away  to  quite  despise  the  younger 
enthusiasm.  Archibald  at  thirty  -  two 
still  believed  in  himself,  don't  you  know. 

III. 

SEVERAL  days  passed,  during  which 
the  ladies  settled  themselves  very  readily 
in  their  new  surroundings.  They  were 
very  methodical,  preferring  to  rise  at 
an  hour  which,  to  Archibald,  was  some- 
thing savoring  of  barbarism.  He  studied 
their  habits,  with  a  view  to  conforming  to 
them  as  far  as  possible,  but  found  that 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  give  up  his 
nine-o'clock  breakfasts,  and  so  went  to 
his  club,  leaving  orders  that  the  ladies 
should  be  accommodated  at  the  earliest 
hour  they  might  choose.  He  found  that 
they  had  discovered  Central  Park,  and 
came  to  make  it  a  habit  to  stroll  with 
them  of  a  morning  upon  the  Mall,  and 
around  the  stagnant  lakes.  Central  Park 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE  131 


was  a  novelty  to  him,  except  as  seen 
from  horseback,  or  a  four-in-hand,  and 
it  really  seemed  very  beautiful  those  sum- 
mer mornings— he  was  really  surprised, 
don't  you  know !  He  wondered  that 
nice  people  did  not  use  the  Park  more 
—as  they  did  Hyde  Park  in  London. 
As  the  days  went  on  he  filled  his  house 
with  flowers,  turned  the  second  floor 
into  an  immense  studio  for  Elvira,  sat 
about  and  watched  her,  criticised,  en- 
couraged her.  He  forgot  Newport,  for- 
got his  polo.  He  had  strangely  ceased  to 
be  bored.  He  was  happy  in  New  York 
in  midsummer!  Dick  Trellis  told  his 
polo  friends  at  Newport  that  Archibald 
was  probably  undergoing  private  treat- 
ment for  softening  of  the  brain,  which 
theory,  in  fact,  they  deemed  sufficiently 
complimentary. 

As  for  his  mother  and  sisters  in  Europe 
— why,  pray,  should  he  inform  them  of 
his  little  joke? 


132  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

Elvira  worked  away  at  her  easel  when 
the  light  was  best — during  the  after- 
noon. In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  the 
ladies  became  socially  inclined.  It  was 
then  that  they  allowed  Archibald  to 
smoke  in  the  "  studio  "  and  talk  Art  with 
Elvira.  Indeed  he  found  it  very  diffi- 
cult to  talk  anything  else  with  the  shy 
New  England  primrose. 

About  Art — with  a  big  A — she  was 
rapturous.  There  seemed  to  be  in  her 
soul  a  strange  hunger  for  everything 
ornate  and  richly  beautiful.  Archibald 
devoted  himself  to  studying  her.  He 
became  strangely  interested  in  East 
Village,  Vt. ,  where,  he  gathered,  the 
Hon.  Ephraim  B.  Price,  her  father,  was 
a  very  distinguished  Republican  law- 
yer and  politician.  He  drew  Aunt  Per- 
kins out  concerning  her  Congregational 
church,  her  minister,  her  fear  of  the 
Catholics,  her  fondness  for  cats,  her  se- 
cret disbelief  in  Art.  Once  in  a  while 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  133 

they  read  him  a  letter  from  the  Hon. 
Ephraim,  in  which  he  could  see  reflected 
their  own  liking  for  him.  He  found  that 
he  was  spoken  of  as  "  Landlord  Archi- 
bald." The  Hon.  Ephraim  was  a  shrewd 
old  fellow,  however,  and  his  counsels  and 
advice  were  generally  of  the  "  trust-not- 
too-much-to-appearances  "  order.  One 
evening  Miss  Perkins  complained  of  a 
headache,  and  Archibald  found  himself 
alone  for  an  hour  with  Elvira.  She 
sat  beneath  the  rich  brazen  lamp,  with 
its  pretty  crimson  shade,  absorbing 
some  of  the  red  glow  in  her  lovely 
face.  They  had  been  two  weeks  in  the 
city,  and  out  of  delicate  feeling  had 
deposited  two  ten-dollar  bills  upon  the 
mantelpiece  in  the  library,  where  Archi- 
bald would  see  them.  He  had  roared 
with  laughter  over  them  and  intended 
having  them  framed,  but  ultimately  he 
found  a  different  use  for  their  amusing 
board-money. 


134  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

He  made  some  little  allusion  to  the 
time  they  had  been  with  him. 

"Two  very  short  weeks,"  said  Elvira, 
"  and  you  have  been  so  very  unusually 
kind,  Mr.  Archibald.  You  have  done  so 
much  for  us.  We  have  noticed  it.  Is 
it  usual  for  landlords  to— to  do  so  much, 
in  the  city  ?  " 

"It  depends,"  he  said,  gravely.  "  Land- 
lords do  more  for  people  who  are  con- 
genial— you  are  congenial " 

"  Oh  !  "    A  slight  pause. 

"  You  are  more  than  congenial,  really" 
said  Archibald.  "  For  you  take  an  inter- 
est, Miss  Price.  I  have  secretly  espied 
both  you  and  your  aunt  dusting " 

Elvira  bit  her  lip.  "  We  have  dusted," 
she  admitted,  reddening  a  little,  "  but  it 
is  merely  out  of  force  of  habit." 

"  Really,"  said  Archibald,  "  I  rawther 
like  you  the  better  for  it,  don't  you 
know  !  " 

"  I'm    afraid,"    said    Elvira,    her    face 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  135 

lighting  up  with  conscious  pleasure,  "that 
you  have  made  up  your  mind  as  a  land- 
lord to  like  us,  whatever  we  do.  I'm 
afraid  you  would  not  like  it  at  all  if  you 
knew  everything  that  aunt  has  done." 

"  Tell  me — I  will  keep  it  a  profound  se- 
cret, I  assure  you,"  he  laughed. 

"  She  has  actually  dared  to  invade  your 
kitchen  !  " 

"  Has  she  ?  "  said  Archibald,  dubious- 
ly ;"  really !  " 

"  Yes,  and  she  declares  that  your  cook 
wastes  enough  every  day  to  keep  four 
families  !  " 

"  Really!  "  said  Archibald  ;  "  I'll  have 
to  look  into  it." 

1 '  You  won't  save  much  out  of  what  we 
pay,"  said  Elvira,  "  ana  we  don't  want  to 
stay  if  it  doesn't  pay  you  ;  but " 

"  Well?" 

"Mr.  Archibald,  we  are  poor."  She 
looked  down. 

"I'm  very  sorry,   I'm   sure — I — "   he 


136  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

really  did  feel  a  compassion  which  found 
its  way  into  his  voice,  and  made  it  trem- 
ble a  little. 

"  Aunt  says  you  cant  be  making  any 
money.  Now,  we  don't  think  it  is  right 
to  stay  another  day  and  be  burdens,  do 
you  see?  " 

A  solemn  pause. 

"  Isn't  that  what  they  are  talking  about 
so  much  now  in  the  novels  ?  "  he  asked, 
at  length. 

"What?" 

"  The  terrible  New  England  con- 
science ?  " 

"  Right  is  right  and  wrong  is  wrong, 
Mr.  Archibald,  disguise  it  how  we  may," 
and  Elvira  compressed  her  pretty  lips 
firmly. 

Archibald  puffed  on  his  cigar,  lazily. 

"  I  wasn't  sure,"  he  said,  as  if  a  doubt 
had  crept  into  his  mind. 

She  glanced  at  him  impatiently. 

"  Can't  you  see  how  wrong  it  would  be 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE  137 

for  us  to  stay  here  and  enjoy  all  we  have 
in  your  beautiful  house,  knowing  that  we 
were  swindling  you  ?  "  She  stamped  her 
foot.  "  Mercy  !  "  she  added,  half  to  her- 
self, "  what  can  you  be  made  of  ?  " 

He  hastened  to  a  display  of  rugged  con- 
science, which  relieved  her. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  see  how  wicked  it 
would  be  if  you  did  swindle  ;  but  I'm 
making  money  !  Really — I  haven't  spent 
the  twenty  dollars  board-money  yet.  Oh, 
pray  rest  assured — I  shan't  lose.  I  will 
tell  you  when  I  run  behind." 

A  great  sense  of  relief  seemed  to  come 
over  the  girl. 

"  But  it  is  all  we  can  pay.  I  told  father 
I  would  not  ask  for  more.  Father  said  he 
knew  it  would  take  more,  but  I  said  I 
would  give  up  Art  first." 

"Oh,  I  say  !  "  he  protested. 

"And  to-morrow  I  am  going  to  begin 
taking  lessons,  but  I  will  not  call  on  fa- 
ther for  another  cent.  He  shan't  be  able 


138  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

to  throw  it  in  my  face  that  it  turned  out 
as  he  said,  and  that  I  was  wrong.  When 
he  and  I  dispute  it  always  does  turn  out 
as  he  says — this  time  it  shan't." 

Archibald  laughed  a  little.  The  poor 
fool,  don't  you  know,  was  so  captivated 
that  every  word,  every  action  of  the  girl 
was  music  to  him.  The  two  weeks  of  ob- 
servation had  told  on  her  dress.  To-night 
she  wore  a  white  muslin,  elaborated  with 
pretty  ribbons.  She  no  longer  seemed 
especially  rustic  to  him.  He  noticed  that 
she  was  doing  her  hair  now  in  the  prevail- 
ing style.  "  By  Jove!  "  he  said  to  him- 
self, "I'll  see  that  she  comes  out  at  the 
Patriarchs'  next  winter  !  " 

This  was  his  highest  earthly  happiness 
for  a  debutante. 

"I  am  going  to  make  money,"  she 
went  on;  "  I'm  going  to  paint  vases, 
plates,  odds  and  ends,  pot-boilers,  you 
know,  and  so  father  shan't  know  what  it 
costs." 


140  STORIES    OF   NEW   YORK 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  if  you  do,"  he  pre- 
tended, lazily  blowing  out  a  ring  of 
smoke,  "  I  happen  to  know  a  fellow — an 
old  friend  of  mine — who  gives  very  fair 
prices  for  those  sort  of  things.  Xow,  I 
am  sure  he  will  take  any  gimcrack  you 
may  do." 

Somehow  the  word  gimcrack  displeased 
her. 

"  My  Art  work  has  always  been  thought 
very  pretty  in  East  Village,"  she  said. 
"  It  would  never  sell,  but  it  was  thought 
pretty.  I  used  to  long  to  help  father — 
and  our  family  is  so  large,  you  know,  four 
little  brothers  and  two  sisters  younger 
than  I  am — and  now,  if  I  only  could  get 
on,  and  help  father  !  Oh,  Mr.  Archibald, 
you  don't  know  how  little  law  there  is  to 
go  round  in  East  Village  !  "  She  heaved 
a  deep  sigh. 

He  tried  to  appear  sympathetic. 

"  I  know  a  fellow  who  gets  a  thousand 
dollars  for  a  portrait,  and  he  has  only 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  141 

just  commenced.     You  can't  help  but  suc- 
ceed, Miss  Price,  really  !  " 

She  gave  him  a  grateful  glance. 
"  Oh,  if  I  could!"  she  said,  anxiously. 
"  I  taught  school  one  winter,  but  the  pay 
was  so  small.  And  I've  tried — you  will 
laugh,  Mr.  Archibald,  at  my  telling  you 
these  things — but  I've  tried  story  writing. 
I  was  so  hopeful  about  it,  and  it  took  as 
many  as  ten  rejections  before  I  became 
convinced ;  and  now,  if  my  Art  fails 

me " 

She  gave  a  little  fluttering  sigh. 
"  I  think  you  have  talent." 

''  Perhaps  it  is  only  enthusiasm " 

"  That  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  It 
will  keep  you  up  to  your  work.  They 
used  to  tell  me  I  had  talent,  but  I  had  no 
enthusiasm,  so  I  dropped  it.  I  wish  to 
encourage  you,"  he  added  ;  "  I  hope  you 
will  go  on.  It  takes  a  lot  of  work,  but 
you  have  just  the  right  temperament. 
You  will  work.  You  will  get  on,  and 


142  STORIES    OF    NEW   YORK 

when  you  become  celebrated,  Miss  Price, 
you  won't  forget  your  old  friends  ?  " 

He  realized  that  it  was  a  rather  bold 
step  forward,  and  he  trembled  for  her 
reply. 

"  I  shall  always  recommend  your 
house,"  she  said,  a  little  stiffly,  making 
him  feel  more  than  ever  her  aristocratic 
superiority  to  landlords,  "  and  I  shall  al- 
ways remember  your  kindness.  We  went 
to  at  least  six  boarding-houses  until  we 
saw  your  sign  —  we  saw  the  landladies. 
Really,  Mr.  Archibald,  you  have  no  idea 
how  vulgar  and  unartistic  most  of  the 
houses  were.  There  was  always  a  disa- 
greeable odor,  as  if  somebody  was  fry- 
ing something.  If  I  do  succeed,  as  I  wish, 
and  make  friends,  and  get  to  be  known, 
and  all,  you  may  be  certain  that  I  shan't 
forget  you.  I  may  organize  an  Art  class, 
and  take  the  whole  house  myself!  " 

He  went  no  further.  It  was  enough  to 
him,  as  he  sat  opposite  her  in  his  evening 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE  143 


dress,  his  rich  opal,  set  with  diamonds, 
flashing  on  his  white  shirt-front,  his  lawn 
tie,  low  shoes,  white  waistcoat — every- 
thing in  the  latest  and  most  expensive 
style  —  it  was  enough  for  Mr.  Jerome 
Archibald  to  sit  there  and  smoke  his  deli- 
cate Havana,  and  reflect  that  he  at  least 
had  her  promise  to  do  what  she  could  to 
recommend  his  boarding-house  ! 

The  next  day.  at  dinner,  he  again  sug- 
gested, in  an  offhand  way,  that  Miss 
Price  should  turn  her  attention  to  por- 
trait-painting. Miss  Perkins  seriously 
objected  at  once. 

"  Your  father  would  never  give  his 
consent,"  she  said.  "  There  was  old  Mr. 
Raymond,  who  lived  on  the  Poor  Farm, 
because  he  found  portrait-painting  didn't 
pay." 

"  Mr.  Raymond  painted  dreadful,  hid- 
eous caricatures,"  said  Elvira.  "  He 
painted  my  mother's  portrait,  and  father 
is  always  throwing  him  in  my  face.  But 


144  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

I  don't  know.  I  have  no  one  to  begin 
on  except  aunt,  and  I  have  tried  and 
tried,  and  I  can't  get  anything  but  the 
expression  of  her  spectacles." 

Even  Aunt  Perkins  laughed  at  this  a 
little. 

"  Begin  on  me,"  ventured  Archibald. 
"  Call  it  the  '  Portrait  of  an  Ideal  Land- 
lord."' 

There  was  a  little  pause.  The  ladies 
rose  without  replying,  and  Archibald  fol- 
lowed them  into  the  drawing-room,  feel- 
ing indefinitely  that  he  had  been  too  for- 
ward. As  he  lit  his  cigar  and  sat  near  an 
open  window,  feeling  the  cool  southern 
breeze,  he  reflected  that  it  was  not  im- 
probable that  in  East  Village  the  only 
landlord  known  to  them  was  the  keeper 
of  a  common  tavern.  It  amused  him  to 
think  of  their  primitive,  quaint  ignorance 
of  city  ways.  He  pictured  the  small  life 
of  East  Village,  Vt.,  the  narrow  social 
horizon,  the  strange  interest  in  politics, 


146  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

the  religious  intolerance,  the  "strong" 
views  on  the  temperance  question  which 
obtained  there,  and  which  leaked  out 
from  Miss  Perkins  as  the  dnys  went  on 
into  August.  The  easy  sense  of  accom- 
modation to  their  new  surroundings  also 
amused  him. 

Archibald  returned  to  the  portrait.  "  I'd 
rawther  like  to  have  one  for  the  dining- 
room,"  he  said  ;  "  I  think  it  would  inter- 
est some  of  my  boarders  when  they  come 
back  next  winter.  I  could  give  you  no 
end  of  sittings,  Miss  Price " 

Elvira  exhibited  some  hesitancy  : 

"Well,  I  might  try,"  she  said.  "  But 
I'm  not  at  all  good  at  hair " 

"Shave  off  my  mustache  if  you  like," 
said  the  infatuated  Archibald,  with  a  gri- 
mace. 

The  ladies  changed  the  subject  decor- 
ously. It  was  plain  that  Archibald's  little 
advances  toward  an  intimacy,  to  be  de- 
rived from  portrait-painting,  were  being 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE  147 


met  in  rather  an  unencouraging  spirit, 
don't  you  know  !  The  next  day  he  in- 
vited them,  as  an  agreeable  diversion,  to 
visit  Coney  Island  ;  but  Elvira  made  an 
excuse  that  she  had  no  time  for  "  pleasur- 
ing." They  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  few 
pleasures.  The  morning  walk  in  Central 
Park  was  given  up  ;  Miss  Perkins  spent 
the  greater  part  of  the  time  when  Elvira 
was  at  the  Art  School  in  riding  to  and 
fro,  apparently,  upon  street-cars.  One  day 
she  came  home  very  late  to  dinner,  say- 
ing that  she  had  discovered  the  "  Belt 
Line."  While  waiting  her  return  for  din- 
ner, Archibald  had  an  agreeable  tete-a- 
tete  with  Elvira. 

IV. 

HE  was  growing  more  and  more  in  love 
with  this  self-contained,  charming,  young 
New  Englander.  It  had  come  to  a  time 
when  he  felt  that  he  must  speak  They 


148  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

had  been  at  No.  41  now  these  four  weeks, 
aunt  and  niece,  and  yet  they  had  man- 
aged to  preserve  their  distance.  He  was 
no  nearer  than  the  day  they  arrived. 

He  reflected  that  the  pleasant  little  daily 
comedy  which  had  amused  him  so  entire- 
ly would  have  to  be  given  up  the  instant 
he  made  known  to  her  his  state  of  feel- 
ing. But  at  the  same  time  he  felt  he 
could  act  out  the  equivocation  no  longer. 
He  must,  as  a  gentleman,  make  a  clean 
breast  of  his  deception.  Archibald  had 
seen  a  great  deal  of  women,  and  he  be- 
lieved that  he  understood  them  pretty 
well.  He  believed  he  understood  Miss 
Price  well  enough  to  reckon  upon  the 
flattery  of  her  sudden  fascination  that  first 
day,  for  him,  as  the  cause  of  his  deceit. 
He  planned  to  boldly  tell  her  this,  one 
day,  while  they  were  waiting  for  Miss  Per- 
kins to  revolve  around  the  "  Belt  Line." 
But  Elvira  turned  the  conversation  against 
his  will.  She  seemed  to  have  remarkable 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE  149 

intuitions,  this  strange  creature !  Per- 
haps she  had  an  intuition  then.  At  any 
rate,  she  announced  their  determination 
to  return  to  East  Village  the  following 
Saturday. 

''  Father  writes  that  his  ague  is  no  bet- 
ter—  that  I  must  come  home,"  she  said. 
"  There  are,  besides,  the  preserves 

Archibald  expressed  no  surprise.  "  If 
you  go,"  he  said,  "  I  think  I'll  take  a  run 
up  there  also.  I  have  the  greatest  curi- 
osity about  East  Village." 

"  There  is  nothing — it  is  dreadfully— I 
wouldn't  have  you  visit  East  Village  for 
all  the  world  !  " 

"Why?" 

"  Because — "  she  replied,  sedately. 

Recognizing  this  as  a  sufficient  reply, 
Archibald  took  a  seat  on  the  sofa  near  her. 
She  was  in  one  of  her  pretty,  soft,  white 
muslins,  tied,  this  evening,  with  ribbons  of 
the  very  latest  shade  of  fashionable  apple- 
green.  He  had  noticed  the  steady  growth 


ISO  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

of  fashion  in  the  girl's  appearance,  but  he 
was  not  quite  prepared  for  the  dozen  sil- 
ver bangles,  which  jingled  as  she  raised 
her  hand  to  her  hair.  She  had  a  pretty 
arm  and  hand,  and  were  it  not  for  the 
bangles,  which  somehow  altered  the  cur- 
rent of  his  thought,  he  had  nerved  himself 
up  to  the  point  of  taking,  or  trying  to 
take,  her  hand  in  his,  and  telling  her  in  a 
manly  way  his  story.  The  bangles,  how- 
ever, don't  you  know,  diverted  him.  He 
could  not  be  serious.  He  laughed.  It 
was  as  if  he  had  happened  upon  a  wood 
nymph  in  seven-button  kid  gloves  !  She 
misinterpreted  his  laughter,  believing  that 
he  intended  to  ridicule  the  pastoral  de- 
lights of  East  Village. 

"  I'm  not  ashamed  of  Vermont,"  she 
said,  drawing  away  a  little.  "  I  can't 
bear  to  have  it  laughed  at.  You  would 
laugh  at  East  Village,  Mr.  Archibald— 
you  laugh  at  everything.  You  are  not 
sincere.  You  have  too  much  of  the  city 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE  151 


in  you  —  too  much  of  its  glitter  and — " 
She  caught  his  eyes  directed  laughingly 
upon  her  bangles,  and  blushed  guiltily. 

"Time  works  its  changes,  don't  you 
know,"  he  said.  "Even  you,  Miss  Elvi- 
ra, are  a  little  affected." 

"  I  hate  myself  for  it,"  she  said  ;  "\do 
find  myself  growing  to  like  things  I  never 
cared  for  before.  I  think  of  what  I  have 
on  from  morning  to  night,"  she  confessed, 
guiltily,  with  an  imploring  glance  at  her 
landlord. 

"  Can  the  dead  dulness  of  midsummer 
in  the  city  have  wrought  so  wondrous  a 
change  ?  "  he  laughed.  "  How  very  gay, 
really,  you  will  be  next  winter." 

"  Seriously,"  said  Elvira,  "  I  look  for- 
ward to  a  visit  to  East  Village  as  a  com- 
plete change  and  rest.  When  I  think  of 
the  white,  dead  walls  of  our  meeting- 
house, I  am  glad  ;  when  I  think  of  the 
lack  of  color  in  everybody  up  there,  it 
makes  me  glad  ;  when  I  think  of  the  plain- 


152  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

ness  of  everything,  the  simpleness,  the 
truth  of  everything,  I'm  glad  to  go  back. 
But  don't  you— don't  come  up  to  Ver- 
mont, Mr.  Archibald.  Really,  please, 
don't." 

Again  Archibald  felt  impelled  to  seize 
her  white,  pretty  hand,  and  tell  his  story. 
He  had  never  come  to  so  intimate  a  point 
before.  What  chance  had  he  ever  to 
come  so  near  again  ?  All  that  his  mother 
and  sisters  could  write  would  have  no  ef- 
fect upon  him  now.  All  that  his  friends 
at  the  club  would  say,  all  that  his  Aunt 
Newbold  would  say — his  Aunt  Xewbold 
was  the  formidable  dragon  of  his  family 
—nothing,  he  felt  sure,  would  alter  his 
mind.  He  had  deliberated  a  month,  he 
would  deliberate  no  more.  Besides,  she 
was  going  away  ;  perhaps  if  he  did  not 
speak  his  opportunity  would  never  again 
occur.  He  paled  a  little  as  he  was  about 
to  open  his  lips. 

Bother ! 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  153 

The  chalk-faced  maid  entered  with  a 
card  on  a  silver  tray. 

V. 

MR.  JEROME  ARCHIBALD  had  very  few 
hatreds  ;  people  whom  he  disliked  he 
carefully  avoided.  Being  fastidious  to  an 
extreme,  he  had  few  friends,  but  he  like- 
wise had  no  enemies.  He  had,  however, 
a  certain  cousin  who  lived  in  Boston,  who 
had  in  some  way  early  offended  him,  and 
for  whom  he  continued  to  have  a  most  in- 
explicable dislike.  Hunnewell  Hollis  was 
a  Harvard  man,  who  had  been  a  great 
swell  at  college,  and  who  was  considered 
"  clevah. "  He  was  a  year  or  two  older 
than  Archibald,  and  he  usually  presumed 
a  little  upon  his  age  and  upon  his  supe- 
rior education.  It  was  Hunnewell  Hol- 
lis's  card  which  was  brought  up  on  the 
silver  tray. 

Archibald  impatiently    rose    and  went 


154  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

down  to  the  reception-room.  There  he 
found  Hollis  walking  up  and  down  the 
room,  apparently  in  some  excitement. 

"  Jerry,  this  won't  do,  old  man  ! — heard 
ladies'  voices  up -stairs!  'Twon't  do! 
Lucky  I  ran  down  with  the  yacht.  Now 
I'm  going  to  carry  you  off  with  me.  By 
the  way,  Somers  and  Billy  Nahant  and 
Jack  Chadwick  are  here,  and  I  took  the 
liberty  to  invite  them  here  overnight — 
knew  you  were  alone — knew  you  would 
be  glad  to  put  them  up." 

"By  Jove,  you  do  me  great  honor! 
Unfortunately  I  haven't  room  for  you — 
I've  only  just  let  the  house — taken — by 
Jove  !  I  must  take  in  the  sign." 

Archibald's  face  betrayed  no  sign  of  his 
justifiable  prevarication. 

"Well,  then,  as  it  is  dinner-time  I'll 
stay  to  dinner  with  you." 

' '  Sorry,  very  sorry.  But  the  ladies  who 
have  taken  the  house  would  think  it  very 
odd " 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  155 

"  Well,  how  in  the  devil  axe  you  dining 
with  them,  Jerry  ?  " 

"They  asked  me,  in  order  to  discuss 
the  terms.  A  few  details  before  signing 
the  lease,  don't  you  know  !  " 

"  Well,  it  puts  me  in  a  rather  awkward 
position  ;  I've  left  the  fellows  your  ad- 
dress ;  they'll  be  here  shortly." 

"  Why  don't  you  head  'em  off?  "  sug- 
gested Archibald,  coolly. 

Mr.  Hunnewell  Hollis  gave  his  cousin 
a  glance  of  anger.  "  The  whole  thing  is 
rather  fishy,"  he  said,  suspiciously.  "  I 
trust,  Jerry,  for  the  honor  of  the  fam- 
ily " 

Archibald  never  quite  detested  his  cous- 
in so  much  before. 

"  There  are  a  great  many  adventur- 
esses about ;  they  are  on  the  lookout  for 
rich  young  men  like  you,  Jerry,"  and 
Hunnewell  Hollis,  giving  his  cousin  a 
rather  gravely  serious  nod,  took  up  his 
hat  and  cane  and  departed. 


156  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

Archibald  went  directly  upstairs.  He 
heard  a  rustle  of  a  dress  against  the  fur- 
niture. Had  Elvira  been  listening  ?  He 
hoped  not. 

VI. 

ADVENTURESS  !  How  that  odious  word 
rang  in  his  ears  as  he  entered  the  room 
where  the  sweet  primrose  face  was  still 
in  its  corner  of  the  sofa.  He  swore  he 
would  never  write  to,  nor  speak  to,  Hun- 
newell  Hollis  again.  He  had  done  with 
him  forever.  Yet,  had  he  heard  the  rustle 
of  her  dress  ?  It  gave  him  a  slightly  dis- 
agreeable sensation  to  think  that  it  were 
possible.  Elvira  Price  apparently  had 
not  moved  from  her  seat.  She  was  in  the 
same  pretty  attitude  in  which  he  had  left 
her,  leaning  back,  easily,  against  the  cor- 
ner of  the  sofa,  her  hands  crossed  in  her 
lap.  As  he  entered  it  seemed  to  him  that 
she  was  studying  his  face. 

"  I   was   so   anxious  about  aunt,''  she 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE 


157 


said.  "  I  went  out  to  the  stairs  thinking 
I  heard  her  come  in.  Do  you  know,  it 
isn't  the  Belt  Line  only  ;  she  goes  to  a 
mission — a  boy's  mission.  She  has  taken 
the  greatest  interest  in  it ;  all  the  teachers 
have  gone  away  for  the  summer.  It  is  in 
an  out-of-the-way  part  of  the  city,  and  it 
worries  me." 

Archibald  hesitated  a  moment,  then  he 
said: 

"  Did  you  hear  the  row  with  my  cous- 
in ?  He  was  very  impertinent ;  but  all 
Bostonians  are  impertinent." 

The  name  Bostonian  seemed  to  give 
her  a  slight  sensation. 

"  You  have  been  in  Boston  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  N — yes,  and  I,  too,  found  Boston- 
ians impertinent."  She  gave  him  an  ap- 
pealing glance  ;  then  she  added,  after  a 
pause,  "  I  find  New  York  quite  different/' 

Miss  Perkins  came  in  shortly  after, 
much  fatigued,  and  Archibald  after  din- 
ner went  over  to  the  club,  where  he  fell 


158  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

in  with  Hunnewell  Hollis  again,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  he  did  his  best  to  avoid 
him.  Hunnewell  had  found  his  yachting 
friends,  and  they  had  had  a  very  good 
dinner.  They  were  all  very  talkative — 
Somers,  Billy  Nahant,  and  Jack  Chad- 
wick.  They  were  in  flannel  suits  and 
yachting  caps,  and  each  was  bronzed  and 
sunburned  to  a  fine  copper  hue. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  people  who 
have  taken  your  house  ? "  asked  Hun- 
newell, bluntly,  after  he  had  introduced 
Archibald  to  his  friends. 

"  Miss  Perkins  and  her  niece,  Miss 
Elvira  Price,"  replied  Archibald,  coldly. 

Instantly  Billy  Nahant  pricked  up  his 
ears.  "Why,"  he  said,  "isn't  she  an 
actress  ?  Didn't  she  play  in  Boston  last 
winter  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  Archibald. 

"  Why,  Elvira  Price.  She  made  quite 
a  hit,  I  believe— her  debut  too— at  the 
Boston  Theatre.  She  played  to  crowded 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  159 

houses  exactly  two  weeks  ;  at  the  end 
of  that  time,  to  everyone's  surprise,  she 
went  home  to  Vermont,  whence  she  came, 
and  she  calmly  gave  up  the  stage  for- 
ever !  " 

Archibald's  face  was  a  study. 

"  Did  you  know  you  were  letting  your 
mother's  house  to  actresses  ?  "  asked  Hol- 
lis,  with  a  sneer. 

"  Miss  Price  is  probably  a  different  per- 
son from  the  one  to  whom  Mr.  Nahant 
has  reference,"  said  Archibald,  coldly. 

''  I  remember  the  girl,"  said  Jack  Chad- 
wick.  "  She  was  very  young  and  beauti- 
ful, and  fitted  her  part  admirably.  She 
made  an  excellent  ingenue.  She  held 
herself  well — not  at  all  gushing,  don't  you 
know — but  poetic,  spirit2ielle.  She  played 
in  '  A  Scrap  of  Paper  ' — some  picked-up 
company  with  her.  She  carried  the  play 
very  well.  I  have  often  wondered  what 
became  of  her." 

"  So  this  is  the  creature  who  has  rented 


l6o  STORIES   OF    NEW  YORK 

your  house,  and  whom  you  dined  with  to- 
night," sneered  Hollis  ;  "an  ingenue, 
indeed  !  " 

"Miss  Price  is  a  lady — not  a  'creat- 
ure,'" said  Archibald,  haughtily.  "As 
far  as  I  have  seen,  she  can  only  honor 
our  house  by  remaining  under  its  roof." 
And  Archibald  bowed  stiffly,  and  took 
his  leave  in  the  midst  of  an  embarrassed 
silence. 

VII. 

HE  preferred  not  to  see  Elvira  again 
before  she  took  her  departure  for  Ver- 
mont the  next  day.  Her  aunt  remained 
in  the  city  to  look  after  her  "  mission 
work."  Archibald  presented  her,  as  the 
gift  of  a  rich,  unknown  friend,  fifty  dollars 
— their  board  money — to  send  some  of 
her  boys  into  the  country.  After  Elvira's 
departure  he  became  very  despondent. 
Elvira's  image  was  broken  to  him,  and 
while  she  had  not  become  in  his  mind 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE 


161 


quite  an  adventuress,  yet  she  had  con- 
cealed her  former  life  from  him.  She  had 
deceived  him. 

But  as  the  days  went  by  and  he  missed 
her,  he  found  that  he  must  speak  to  Miss 
Perkins  about  Elvira's  acting,  or  go 
through  a  serious  case  of  nervous  pros- 
tration. He  said  very  bluntly  to  her,  one 
day,  at  dinner  : 

"  So  I  hear  your  niece  is  a  great  ac- 
tress." 

Miss  Perkins  gave  him  a  quick,  sharp 
glance. 

"  She  has  acted,"  she  replied.  "  But 
Elvira  Price  had  too  much  conscience  to 
act  long." 

He  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  She  acted  in  Boston,  because  she 
was  bound  to  try  it.  She  wanted  to  try 
everything — everything  that  would  keep 
her  father  out  of  the  poor-house  and  edu- 
cate the  family.  But  acting,  Mr.  Archi- 
bald, is  a  dreadful  business  !  As  soon  as 


162  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

Elvira  saw  into  it  a  little  she  quit.  The 
air  wasn't  pure  enough,  somehow,  for  her. 
Elvira,  she  needs  awful  pure  air  !  " 

Again  Archibald  felt  a  certain  glow  of 
satisfaction  steal  over  him. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  after  a  suit- 
able pause,  "  I  am  more  than  half-inclined 
to  make  her  angry  by  running  up  to  East 
Village." 

Miss  Perkins  gave  a  little  quinzied 
laugh  of  satisfaction.  She  was  beginning 
to  like  Archibald  very  much. 

"  It  would  startle  Elvira  ;  but  she'd  be 
pleased,"  ventured  the  thin  old  maid. 
"  She'd  be  pleased — in  spite  of  every- 
thing !  " 

A  few  days  later  Archibald,  after  half  a 
day's  journey,  found  himself  in  Vermont. 
As  the  train  drew  near  East  Village  the 
mountains  grew  higher  and  the  scenery 
wilder.  He  could  see  the  great  August 
moon  roll  itself  above  the  high  crest  of 
the  mountains  to  the  west.  Though 


A  PURITAN   ING&NUB 


Archibald  was  far  from  superstitious,  he 
was  pained  to  observe  that  he  saw  the 
moon  over  his  left  shoulder. 

It  was  late  when  he  stumbled  from  the 
steps  of  the  car  upon  the  wooden  plat- 
form of  the  station  at  East  Village.  It 
was  dark,  also,  and  to  him,  extraordina- 
rily cold.  He  groped  his  way,  shivering, 
past  a  blinding  reflector,  where  half  a 
dozen  men  in  cow-hide  boots  were  exam- 
ing  a  list  of  invoices,  to  what  he  could 
dimly  outline  as  the  village  stage.  No 
one  spoke  to  him,  and  he  found  that  no 
one  seemed  to  care  whether  he,  the  sole 
passenger,  was  carried.  He  had  visions 
of  an  unpleasant  nature,  of  being  depos- 
ited inside  the  coach  in  a  shed  or  stable 
to  await  the  morning.  He  felt  the  stage 
pitch  and  toss  for  twenty  minutes  like  a 
bark  upon  an  angry  sea.  When  all  was 
still  again  he  found  that  the  driver  had 
drawn  up  before  a  white-pillared  old- 
fashioned  house,  which  stood  a  little  back 


164  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

from  the  street.  At  the  side  of  the  gate 
a  small  wooden  building  bore  the  sign, 
which  was  illuminated  by  the  stage  lamp, 

Ephraim  B.  Price,  Attorney  at  Law. 

"  Oh,"  said  Archibald,  "  this  is  Elvira's 
house,  and  the  driver  is  delivering  my 
box  of  flowers." 

He  leaned  forward,  hoping  to  catch 
sight  of  the  fair  young  girl  when  the  front- 
door opened  to  take  in  the  box.  But  he 
was  disappointed.  The  impatient  driver 
had  merely  left  it  on  the  steps  of  the 
high,  white -pillared  portico,  after  giving 
the  door-bell  a  vigorous  pull. 

Then  followed  a  further  few  minutes  of 
pitching  and  tossing,  and  the  stage  drew 
up  before  the  tavern-door.  A  row  of  a 
dozen  men,  whose  hats  were  drawn  down 
over  their  eyes,  and  whose  feet  fell  instan- 
taneously from  the  rail  to  the  floor  as  the 
coach  drew  up,  came  forward,  and  one  of 
them  betrayed  a  desire  to  grasp  Archi- 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE  165 


bald's  in  his  own  horny  hand.  "  Guess 
ye'll  stop  overnight  ?  Th'ain't  no  other 
place.  'Sprised  to  see  a  stranger  to-night, 
tew.  Will  you  go  in  an'  sign — will  you, 
sir?" 

"  So  this  uncouth  ruffian,"  thought 
Archibald,  "  is  Elvira's  ideal  landlord  ! 
No  wonder  she  distrusts  me  !  " 

"  We're  local  temp'rance,"  said  the 
landlord.  "  An'  no  licker's  being  seen  to 
East  Village  for  nigh  six  years.  Not  a 
drop,  sir,  an'  it's  bustin'  my  ho-tel  high- 
er'n  a  kite.  Yes;  it  is  !  " 

Archibald  expressed  commiseration. 

"As  I  tell'd  Squar'  Price,  '  yeou  high- 
toned,  'ristocratic  temp'rance  folk'll  hurt 
East  Village  when  ye  close  the  hotel !  ' 
Why,  when  a  gent  comes  up  here  fr'  the 
city,  he  wants  to  be  able  to  call  fer  a 
glass  o'  gin  or  a  glass  o'  whiskey  's  often 
's  he  likes." 

Archibald  thought  he  detected  the  faint 
smell  of  liquor  upon  the  landlord's  breath 


l66  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

as  he  talked,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that 
his  obtrusively  free-and-easy-manner  was 
the  result  of  a  secret  violation  of  the  pro- 
hibitory local  license  law.  "  Bein'  fr'  the 
city,  as  you  be,"  said  the  landlord,  lower- 
ing his  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  placing 
his  heavy  hand  on  Archibald's  shoulder 
familiarly,  "  I  calc'late  you're  cold  an' 
ready  for  a  tidy  drink.  I  calc'late  I'm 
talkin'  to  a  gent  as  is  used  'ter  lickerin' 
up,  even  ef  'tis  agin  the  law  ?  "  To  hu- 
mor him,  Archibald  admitted  that  he  nad 
no  stringent  prohibitory  sentiments. 

41  Well  then,  good !  Jest  you  foller 
me  !  " 

Archibald  followed  the  landlord  out  in- 
to the  hotel  yard,  where  the  latter  pulled 
up  the  flaps  of  a  cellar-door.  Hearing 
the  creaking  sound,  and  taking  it  for  an 
admonitory  signal,  the  row  of  men  on  the 
hotel  piazza,  who  had  resumed  their  seats, 
again  dropped  their  feet  on  the  floor,  rose, 
and  came  out  into  the  yard  in  Indian  file, 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  167 

in  perfect  silence.  Archibald  followed 
his  landlord  down  into  the  darkness  of  the 
cellar,  where,  beneath  the  dim  light  of  a 
solitary  candle  he  perceived  a  cask  with  a 
wooden  spigot,  and  near  it  half  a  dozen 
tin  cups.  The  men  filed  down  the  steps 
behind  him.  "  You've  heerd  o'  apple 
jack  ?  "  asked  the  landlord,  in  a  whisper. 

Archibald  nodded. 

"  Drink  that,  then  !  "  and  the  landlord 
handed  him  a  cupful  of  the  beverage.  It 
was  enough  to  intoxicate  him.  He  drank 
but  a  very  little  ;  as  he  saw  the  other  men 
were  waiting,  he  passed  the  cup  on  to 
them. 

"  Welcome  to  East  Village,  stranger," 
said  one  of  the  men,  drinking.  "  Be  you 
up  'ere  a-sellin'  marchandize  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no!  " 

"  Be  you  come  to  see  the  Squar'?  " 

"  Well — perhaps — yes." 

"  Wa'l,  this  is  a  dead  give  away  !  "  and 
the  men  laughed  noisily,  as  rustics  will. 


168  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

"  Don't  mention  this  'ere  cider  to  Squar' 
Price  !  " 

The  next  morning  was  delicious,  the 
air  clear  and  smelling  of  the  mountains. 
The  mist  hung  above  the  distant  river, 
and  a  line  of  hills  showed  their  green 
wooded  outline  above  it.  As  Archibald 
breathed  the  sweet  country  air,  he  stepped 
more  briskly,  felt  less  of  his  city  malaria, 
drew  into  his  lungs  a  long  breath  of  the 
fresh,  invigorating  summer  wind,  which 
seemed  to  come  to  him  across  the  high 
upland,  from  such  a  vast  distance. 

He  came  to  the  old  colonial  gate  and 
entered.  The  Hon.  Ephraim  B.  Price  was 
just  at  the  moment  sauntering  down  the 
gravel  path  from  his  house  to  his  law 
office.  As  he  saw  Archibald  enter,  he 
came  forward  somewhat  more  rapidly. 
He  was  a  man  of  large  frame,  gaunt 
rather  than  spare,  of  prominent  cheek- 
bones, of  lengthy  chin-beard.  His  eyes 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  169 

were  very  keen,  and  his  entire  expression 
was  one  of  patient  alertness — as  if  there 
was  very  little  to  be  alert  over,  but  a  deep 
necessity  of  keeping  up  a  reputation. 
Archibald  learned  afterward  how  inde- 
fatigable a  partisan,  and  how  strenuous 
a  believer  in  the  Republican  party  the 
Hon.  Ephraim  was. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  after  greeting  Archi- 
bald, and  looking  with  a  grin  of  pity  upon 
his  engraved  card — a  grin  directed  chiefly 
to  the  "  Mr."  before  Archibald's  name  — 
"  you  are  Elvira's  landlord  down  to  New 
York — tell  me,  how  is  your  city  and  State 
going,  do  you  think  ?  " 

Archibald  felt  taken  aback.  Politics 
were  something  of  which  he  knew  noth- 
ing. He  was  but  barely  aware  that  it  was 
a  presidential  year.  In  the  city  he  kept 
severely  out  of  politics,  as  hardly  the  em- 
ployment of  gentlemen. 

"  I — I— think  it  will  go  Democratic." 

A  more  violent  frown  than  before.     "  If 


170  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

I  thought  so,  sir  ;  if  I  imagined  so  ;  if 
for  one  instant  I  believed  that  what  we 
fought  for  during  the  war — Eh,  Elvira  ? 
Here  is  Mr.  Archibald  !  " 

Then  the  Hon.  Ephraim  turned  abrupt- 
ly and  entered  his  office,  where,  it  may 
be  added,  he  sat  for  the  next  hour,  his 
feet  on  the  cold  stove  before  him,  medi- 
tating where  his  next  fee  was  to  come 
from,  and  breaking  out  with  an  occasional 
invective  against  the  wicked  democracy. 

Before  the  old  gentleman  was  a  square 
window  which  looked  out  over  the  town. 
All  day  long  he  sat  before  this,  as  upon  a 
watch-tower — a  censor  of  village  morals 
and  deportment. 

"  Father  is  so  interested  in  the  elec- 
tion," apologized  Elvira.  "  But  how 
strange  to  see  you  here  ;  and  I  told  you 
not  to  !  " 

She  held  a  small  gray  kitten  in  her 
arms,  which  she  stroked  slowly.  She  was 
still  in  his  favorite  white  muslin,  and  she 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  171 

had  a  gentle,  sweet  flush  of  pleasure  in 
her  face. 

"  I  came,  Miss  Price — because — don't 
you  know — I — aw — missed  you,"  and  he 
smiled. 

"  You  are  very  good.  How  is  Aunt 
Perkins  ?  Did  she  bring  her  mission  boys 
to  your  house  ?  She  has  written  that  a 
friend  of  yours  has  given  fifty  dollars  for 
the  boys.  Do  tell  me  about  it.  Is  she 
well  ?  Have  any  more  boarders  come  ?  " 

She  plied  him  with  questions  as  they 
strolled  toward  the  white-pillared  portico. 
The  house  was  old  and  shabby,  but  he 
did  not  notice  it.  The  place  was  run 
down  and  impoverished,  but  it  seemed 
very  beautiful  to  him,  for  he  noticed  that 
she  wore  one  of  his  roses  in  her  lustrous 
hair. 

Entering  the  hallway  he  met  some  of 
the  younger  brothers  and  sisters,  and  felt 
a  sudden  strange  affection  spring  up  in 
his  heart  for  them.  Elvira  took  him 


172  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

through  into  a  gloomy  parlor,  lined  with 
plain  hair-cloth  furniture.  On  the  walls 
were  several  portraits.  "  This  was  my 
mother,"  said  the  girl,  affectionately, 
pointing  to  what  Archibald  felt  to  be 
a  hideous  daub,  a  red-faced  woman  in 
black,  against  a  green  background.  It 
was  the  portrait  by  Mr.  Raymond,  whose 
abode  was  now  the  poor-house.  "  She 
died  only  two  years  ago " 

"  I  fancy  if  she  had  lived,"  said  Archi- 
bald, "you  would  not  have  tried — the 
stage  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  calmly  a  moment. 

"  That  Boston  man  has  told  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  learned  the  fact  from  his 
friends." 

"  I  shall  never — again."  There  was  a 
despairing  pathos  in  her  voice. 

"  Elvira,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  as  I  see  it 
— I  think  it  was  very  noble  of  you  to  try." 

Then,  unaccountably  to  him,  she  burst 
into  tears. 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  173 

"It  is  what  I  love — what  I  long  for — 
to  be  an  actress — a  great  actress,"  she 
sobbed.  "But  I  can't — I  can't!  I  can't 
exist  with  those  creatures — those  horrible 
men  who  hang  about  you  !  No  one  knows 
what  I  endured  !  No  one  knows  what, 
too,  I  gave  up  when  I  left  the  stage  and 
came  home  ;  but  I  had  to." 

He  leaned  forward  in  sympathy. 

"  You  may  say  what  you  will,  but  there 
is  no  Art  like  acting,  and  nothing  so  fine 
as  applause.  Oh,  that  I  could  bring  my- 
self to  do  it — to  be  strong  enough  to  do  it 
— to  save  our  fortunes — to  help  father. 
You  little  know  how  I  have  suffered,  Mr. 
Archibald" 

"  By  Jove — I — I  quite  like  you  for  it !  " 

He  was  on  his  feet  at  her  side.  Impul- 
sively he  bent  down  and  whispered  close 
to  her  ear.  "  Let  me  be  your  audience 
the  rest  of  my  life  !  Act  for  me — let  me 
applaud  everything  —  anything  you  do, 
my  darling  !  always  !  always  !  " 


174  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

She  put  him  away. 

"  I  don't  feel  1  have  acted  just  right 
with  you,"  she  said.  "  I  should  have  told 
you  that  I  was — or  might  be  again — an 
actress."  She  spoke  coldly.  "  I  don't 
believe  you  want  them  in  your  boarding- 
house.  They  are  not  always  desirable, 
I  believe  !  "  Elvira's  eyes  were  fastened 
on  the  floor. 

Archibald  paced  to  and  fro  in  the  par- 
lor. "  Confound  her  odd  New  England 
conscience !  "  he  muttered  to  himself. 
Seizing  her  hands,  he  cried,  passionately, 
"  I,  too,  must  confess.  Elvira,  I  loved 
you  that  first  day  you  came.  /  loved  you  .' 
Therefore  I  let  you  think — it  was  a  board- 
ing house." 

"  And  it  isn't — it's  your  own  private — 
Oh,  Mr.  Archibald  !  " 

She  sat  and  looked  at  him  with  a  horri- 
fied stare.  The  full  truth  of  his  imposi- 
tion began  to  steal  upon  her  gradually. 
Then  her  face  fell  and  she  averted  it,  as 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  175 

she  felt  that  a  fatal  untruth  had  come  be- 
tween them.  She  rose  quietly  and  left 
him  standing  near  her.  She  went  up- 
stairs to  her  room  and  threw  herself  upon 
her  bed  in  an  agony  of  tears. 

Through  it  all  Archibald  had  merely 
smiled  ! 

VIII. 

BUT  when  she  left  him  he  felt  rather 
weak  for  a  moment,  as  if  his  city  malaria 
had  returned  upon  him  with  a  double 
force.  As  Elvira  showed  no  signs  of  re- 
turning, he  amused  himself  by  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  the  family  photograph 
album.  Face  by  face  revealed  the  stern, 
set,  arid,  Puritan  features,  the*  hard,  deter- 
mined chins,  and  the  "  firmness,"  which, 
in  the  person  of  the  Hon.  Ephraim,  he 
felt  still  dominated  and  controlled  the 
public  affairs  of  East  Village.  He  threw 
down  the  album  with  a  feeling  of  impo- 
tent rage  against  the  survival  of  this  co- 


176  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

lonial  "  narrowness,"  as  he  liked  to  call 
it.  He  walked  out  of  the  house  and  wan- 
dered, much  crestfallen  and  full  of  mal- 
aria, along  the  village  street  toward  the 
hotel.  A  great  many  farm  wagons  were 
tied  along  the  sidewalk,  and  there  were 
numbers  of  fresh-cheeked  country  girls 
walking  in  threes  and  fours,  and  sweeping 
the  sidewalk  as  they  went.  Upon  a  slight 
elevation  stood  a  white  wooden  meeting- 
house, with  a  white  steeple,  and  it  gave 
him  a  chill  even  on  that  warm  morning 
to  look  at  it— it  looked  so  cold.  Small 
groups  of  hard-featured  farmers  in  fur 
caps  stood  on  the  corners  of  the  streets 
discussing,  presumably,  the  crops.  He 
wondered  if  the  fur  caps  were  needed  in 
that  arid,  bleak  region  to  keep  warm  the 
natives'  sense  of  Right  and  Wrong  ?  He 
made  his  way  out,  beneath  some  beautiful 
elms,  into  a  small,  old-fashioned  burying- 
ground,  where  he  discovered  that  "  erring 
sinners "  apparently  comprised  the  only 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE  177 


element  of  those  who  were  requested  to 
"Pause  and  Read."  Feeling  himself  to 
be  now,  for  some  reason,  a  distinctly  im- 
moral person,  he  read  some  of  the  quaint 
epitaphs,  to  which  he  was  invited,  in  a 
spirit  of  humility,  which  presently  changed 
to  amusement.  In  death  as  in  life,  the 
hard,  stern  old  village  characters  pre- 
served on  their  headstones  a  fund  of  grim 
humor  for  the  "sinner,"  which  in  Archi- 
bald's instance  made  him  smile.  "Oh," 
he  sighed  to  himself,  "  I  long  to  take  her 
away  from  all  this  sort  of  thing — for- 
ever !  " 

He  took  a  long  walk  in  the  afternoon, 
and  returned  to  the  hotel  to  find  a  coldly 
worded  note  from  Elvira  inviting  him 
around  to  tea.  He  removed  the  stains  of 
his  walk,  and  dressed  himself  with  his 
usual  care.  He  found  Elvira  waiting  for 
him  beneath  the  high  white  pillars,  in  an 
unbecoming,  and  as  it  seemed  to  him,  for- 
bidding dress  of  black.  Her  face  seemed 


178  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

unusually  stern  and  relentless.  There 
were  traces  of  tears  in  her  red  eyelids, 
but  the  tears  were  dried  away  now,  and 
her  eyes  were  very  bright  and  hard. 

"  Don't  say  anything  now.  Father  feels 
very  deeply  about  it.  We  have  had  a 
long  talk.  When  he  heard  of  the — of  the 
unfortunate  house  affair — he  was  so  angry 
I  could  hardly  pacify  him." 

Archibald's  heart  sank  within  him.  He 
fairly  shivered. 

"He  said  that  he  did  not  want  me  to 
lower  my  standard,"  continued  Elvira,  in 
her  clear,  musical,  passionless  voice. 
"  And  I  told  him  that  he  need  have  no 
fears.  I  wanted  to  see  you  first,  and  tell 
you.  Let  us  not  have  any/cW/X^about  it. " 

"  Any  feeling!"  exclaimed  Archibald. 
"  Why — how  can  we  help  it !  " 

"  Let  us  act  as  if  we  had  never  under- 
stood one  another.  I  will  go  back  to  the 
city  with  you,  and  Aunt  Perkins  and  I  will 
find  some  other  place  at  once." 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  179 


''  Go  back  with  me — and  expect  me  to 
show  no  feeling  !  Elvira,  this  is  prepos- 
terous !  " 

"  Then  I  will  go  back  alone."  She 
compressed  her  lips,  just  as  he  had  ob- 
served her  father  do. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  Elvira,  do  you  mean — 
can  you  mean  that  I  can  never — I  can 
never  hope  !  " 

She  nodded  her  pretty  flower-like  head 
gravely.  "  Come  in  to  tea,  won't  you  ?  " 
she  said,  coolly.  "  I  want  father  to  hear 
you  talk  about  Art." 

He  turned  on  his  heel.  At  last  he,  too, 
was  angry. 

"  Thanks,  awfully,"  he  said.  "  But  if  I 
go  back  to  the  hotel  now,  I  shall  just  have 
time  to  pack  my  valise  and  catch  the 
evening  train." 

He  walked  rapidly  away,  leaving  her 
standing  upon  the  white-pillared  portico, 
looking  with  pure,  sweet,  upturned  face, 
like  a  saint  who  has  for  all  time  renounced 


l8o  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil.  Had 
he  looked  back,  Mr.  Jerome  Archibald's 
tender  heart  would  have  been  touched  by 
her  attitude  ;  he  would  have  returned, 
and,  against  her  will,  clasped  her  in  his 
arms  and  covered  her  pale  lips  with  warm 
kisses.  It  might  have  melted  her  high 
"  standard  "  a  little.  But  he  let  anight 
intervene  without  seeing  her,  and  the  en- 
tering wedge  of  her  high  sense  of  duty  did 
its  work  before  morning.  He  determined 
to  remain  another  day  and  make  a  further 
trial.  When  he  called  the  next  day  she 
was  obdurate.  "  Love  cannot  be  built 
upon  deceit  and  untruth,"  she  said,  sen- 
tentiously.  "I  was  not  frank,  you  were 
not.  It  is  better  that  we  should  part.  I 
could  never  hold  up  my  head — I  could 
never  face  the  world.  I  know  what  they 
would  call  me.  They  would  call  me  an 
adventuress  !  and  they  would  hate  me  for 
being  successful.  Yes  —  your  mother, 
your  sisters — everyone." 


A   PURITAN   INGENUE  l8l 

"  But  you  were  perfectly  innocent  about 
it,  Elvira," 

There  was  a  little  pause. 

"  I,  too,  was  innocent.  I  meant  no 
more  than  to  have  you  near  me,  where  I 
could  learn  to  know  you — love  you — and 
now,  really,  it  seems  as  if  you  had  built 
up  a  mountain  of  ice  between  us,  don't 
you  know." 

She  merely  shook  her  head. 

When  Archibald  returned  to  the  city 
his  malaria  compelled  him  to  go  away 
again  almost  immediately  to  Newport. 
There,  a  few  weeks  later,  his  agent  wrote 
him  that  he  had  succeeded  in  renting  the 
house  "  at  an  exorbitant  figure  to  a  very 
rich  tenant  without  children" — thus  fulfil- 
ling his  mother's  conditions  to  the  letter. 
He  went  back  to  the  city,  recovered  in 
health,  to  pack  up  a  few  personal  effects, 
and  found  to  his  surprise  that  Miss  Per- 
kins and  her  niece  were,  at  the  moment 
he  arrived,  in  the  house.  They  had  tak- 


IH2  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

en  board  on  Ninth  Street,  and  had  gone 
up  to  take  a  last  look  of  the  charming 
interior  where,  Elvira  guiltily  acknowl- 
edged, life  had  been  "  so  wrongly  pleas- 
ant." He  found  Elvira  holding  a  fan  in 
her  hand  and  seated  pensively  in  an  old 
Venetian  chair  in  what  was  formerly  her 
studio.  As  he  entered  the  room  she  rose, 
blushing  a  most  vivid  red,  and  as  rapidly 
turning  pale  again. 

"  Mr.  Archibald  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
did  not  know  you  were  in  the  city  !  " 

"  I  have  been  here  only  an  hour,"  he 
said,  stiffly. 

"It  is  time  for  us  to  go;"  and  she 
turned  to  the  door. 

"  Elvira !  "  His  face  looked  sick  and 
ghastly. 

"Well?"  She  drew  herself  up  very 
coldly. 

"  Are  you  made  of  stone  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Archibald,  what  can  you  mean  ?  " 

"  My  child,  you  are  capable  of  grinding 


A   PURITAN    INGENUE  183 

one  who  loves  you  into  powder — like— er 
— a  millstone  !  " 

"  Aunt  Perkins  !"  she  called  out,  "let 
us  go  !  " 

'*  No,"  he  cried,  ''  I  will  not  let  you  go. 
You  shall  hear  me  !  I  love  you  !  Do  you 
hear  ?  And  you  shall  not  leave  this  house 
until  you  say  you  will  be  my  wife  !  I 
know  you  care  for  me — everything  tells 
me  so— but  you  will  wear  your  own  and 
my  heart  out  with  your  hard,  cruel  con- 
science !  What  brought  you  here  ?  You 
loved  me  /  Why  have  you  been  sitting  in 
this  room  ?  You  love  me,  Elvira — I  know 
it— I  feel  it !  " 

Gently  he  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed 
her.  She  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder 
and  breathed  a  little  contented  sigh.  "1 
don't  think  this — is  right !  "  she  said. 


MRS.  MANSTEY'S  VIEW 

BY  EDITH  WHARTON 


'  H  E  view  from  Mrs.  Man- 
stey's  window  was  not  a 
striking  one,  but  to  her  at 
least  it  was  full  of  interest 
and  beauty.  Mrs.  Man- 
stey  occupied  the  back 
room  on  the  third  floor  of 
a  New  York  boarding- 
house,  in  a  street  where 
the  ash -barrels  lingered 
late  on  the  sidewalk  and 
the  gaps  in  the  pave- 
ment would  have  staggered  a  Quintus 
Curtius.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  clerk 
in  a  large  wholesale  house,  and  his  death 
had  left  her  alone,  for  her  only  daugh- 
ter had  married  in  California,  and  could 
not  afford  the  long  journey  to  New  York 
to  see  her  mother.  Mrs.  Manstey,  per- 


l88  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

haps,  might  have  joined  her  daughter 
in  the  West,  but  they  had  now  been  so 
many  years  apart  that  they  had  ceased  to 
feel  any  need  of  each  other's  society,  and 
their  intercourse  had  long  been  limited  to 
the  exchange  of  a  few  perfunctory  letters, 
written  with  indifference  by  the  daughter, 
and  with  difficulty  by  Mrs.  Manstey, 
whose  right  hand  was  growing  stiff  with 
gout.  Even  had  she  felt  a  stronger  desire 
for  her  daughter's  companionship,  Mrs. 
Manstey 's  increasing  infirmity,  which 
caused  her  to  dread  the  three  flights  of 
stairs  between  her  room  and  the  street, 
would  have  given  her  pause  on  the  eve  of 
undertaking  so  long  a  journey  ;  and  with- 
out, perhaps,  formulating  these  reasons 
she  had  long  since  accepted  as  a  matter  of 
course  her  solitary  life  in  New  York. 

She  was,  indeed,  not  quite  lonely,  for  a 
few  friends  still  toiled  up  now  and  then  to 
her  room  ;  but  their  visits  grew  rare  as  the 
years  went  by.  Mrs.  Manstey  had  never 


MRS.  MANSTEY'S  VIEW          189 

been  a  sociable  woman,  and  during  her 
husband's  lifetime  his  companionship  had 
been  all-sufficient  to  her.  For  many  years 
she  had  cherished  a  desire  to  live  in  the 
country,  to  have  a  hen-house  and  a  gar- 
den ;  but  this  longing  had  faded  with  age, 
leaving  only  in  the  breast  of  the  uncom- 
municative old  woman  a  vague  tenderness 
for  plants  and  animals.  It  was,  perhaps, 
this  tenderness  which  made  her  cling  so 
fervently  to  the  view  from  her  window,  a 
view  in  which  the  most  optimistic  eye 
would  at  first  have  failed  to  discover 
anything  admirable. 

Mrs.  Manstey,  from  her  coign  of  van- 
tage (a  slightly  projecting  bow-window 
where  she  nursed  an  ivy  and  a  succession 
of  unwholesome-looking  bulbs),  looked 
out  first  upon  the  yard  of  her  own  dwell- 
ing, of  which,  however,  she  could  get  but 
a  restricted  glimpse.  Still,  her  gaze  took 
in  the  topmost  boughs  of  the  ailanthus  be- 
low her  window,  and  she  knew  how  early 


IQO  STORIES  OF   NEW   YORK 

each  year  the  clump  of  dicentra  strung  its 
bending  stalk  with  hearts  of  pink. 

But  of  greater  interest  were  the  yards 
beyond.  Being  for  the  most  part  attached 
to  boarding-houses  they  were  in  a  state  of 
chronic  untidiness  and  fluttering,  on  cer- 
tain days  of  the  week,  with  miscellaneous 
garments  and  frayed  table-cloths.  In 
spite  of  this  Mrs.  Manstey  found  much  to 
admire  in  the  long  vista  which  she  com- 
manded. Some  of  the  yards  were,  in- 
deed, but  stony  wastes,  with  grass  in  the 
cracks  of  the  pavement  and  no  shade  in 
spring  save  that  afforded  by  the  intermit- 
tent leafage  of  the  clothes-lines.  These 
yards  Mrs.  Manstey  disapproved  of,  but 
the  others,  the  green  ones,  she  loved. 
She  had  grown  used  to  their  disorder  ;  the 
broken  barrels,  the  empty  bottles  and 
paths  unswept  no  longer  annoyed  her  ; 
hers  was  the  happy  faculty  of  dwelling  on 
the  pleasanter  side  of  the  prospect  before 
her. 


MRS.  MANSTEY'S  VIEW 


191 


In  the  very  next  enclosure  did  not  a 
magnolia  open  its  hard  white  flowers 
against  the  watery  blue  of  April  ?  And 
was  there  not,  a  little  way  down  the  line, 
a  fence  foamed  over  every  May  by  lilac 
waves  of  wistaria  ?  Farther  still,  a 
horse-chestnut  lifted  its  candela- 
bra of  buff  and  pink  blossoms 
above  broad  fans  of  foliage  ; 
while  in  the  opposite  yard 
June  was  sweet  with  the 
breath  of  a  neglected  sy- 
ringa,  which  persisted  in 
jgrowing  in  spile  of  the 
countless  obstacles  op- 
posed to  its  welfare. 

But  if  nature  occupied 
the  front  rank  in  Mrs. 
Manstey's  view,  there 
was  much  of  a  more  per- 
sonal character  to  inter- 
est her  in  the  aspect  of 
the  houses  and  their  in- 


192  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

mates.  She  deeply  disapproved  of  the 
mustard-colored  curtains  which  had  late- 
ly been  hung  in  the  doctor's  window  op- 
posite ;  but  she  glowed  with  pleasure 
when  the  house  farther  down  had  its  old 
bricks  washed  with  a  coat  of  paint.  The 
occupants  of  the  houses  did  not  often 
show  themselves  at  the  back  windows, 
but  the  servants  were  always  in  sight. 
Noisy  slatterns,  Mrs.  Manstey  pro- 
nounced the  greater  number ;  she  knew 
their  ways  and  hated  them.  But  to  the 
quiet  cook  in  the  newly  painted  house, 
whose  mistress  bullied  her,  and  who 
secretly  fed  the  stray  cats  at  nightfall, 
Mrs.  Manstey's  warmest  sympathies  were 
given.  On  one  occasion  her  feelings 
were  racked  by  the  neglect  of  a  house- 
maid, who  for  two  days  forgot  to  feed 
the  parrot  committed  to  her  care.  On 
the  third  day,  Mrs.  Manstey,  in  spite  of 
her  gouty  hand,  had  just  penned  a  let- 
ter, beginning:  "Madam,  it  is  now 


MRS.  MANSTEY'S  VIEW          193 

three  days  since  your  parrot  has  been 
fed,"  when  the  forgetful  maid  appeared 
at  the  window  with  a  cup  of  seed  in  her 
hand. 

But  in  Mrs.  Manstey's  more  medita- 
tive moods  it  was  the  narrowing  per- 
spective of  far-off  yards  which  pleased 
her  best.  She  loved,  at  twilight,  when 
the  distant  brown-stone  spire  seemed 
melting  in  the  fluid  yellow  of  the  west, 
to  lose  herself  in  vague  memories  of  a 
trip  to  Europe,  made  years  ago,  and  now 
reduced  in  her  mind's  eye  to  a  pale 
phantasmagoria  of  indistinct  steeples 
and  dreamy  skies.  Perhaps  at  heart 
Mrs.  Manstey  was  an  artist ;  at  all  events 
she  was  sensible  of  many  changes  of 
color  unnoticed  by  the  average  eye,  and 
dear  to  her  as  the  green  of  early  spring 
was  the  black  lattice  of  branches  against 
a  cold  sulphur  sky  at  the  close  of  a 
snowy  day.  She  enjoyed,  also,  the  sunny 
thaws  of  March,  when  patches  of  earth 


194  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

showed  through  the  snow,  like  ink-spots 
spreading  on  a  sheet  of  white  blotting- 
paper ;  and,  better  still,  the  haze  of 
boughs,  leafless  but  swollen,  which  re- 
placed the  clear-cut  tracery  of  winter. 
She  even  watched  with  a  certain  interest 
the  trail  of  smoke  from  a  far-off  factory 
chimney,  and  missed  a  detail  in  the 
landscape  when  the  factory  was  closed 
and  the  smoke  disappeared. 

Mrs.  Manstey,  in  the  long  hours  which 
she  spent  at  her  window,  was  not  idle. 
She  read  a  little,  and  knitted  numberless 
stockings  ;  but  the  view  surrounded  and 
shaped  her  life  as  the  sea  does  a  lonely 
island.  When  her  rare  callers  came  it 
was  difficult  for  her  to  detach  herself 
from  the  contemplation  of  the  opposite 
window-washing,  or  the  scrutiny  of  cer- 
tain green  points  in  a  neighboring  flower- 
bed which  might,  or  might  not,  turn 
into  hyacinths,  while  she  feigned  an  in- 
terest in  her  visitor's  anecdotes  about 


MRS.  MANSTEY  S  VIEW  195 

some  unknown  grandchild.  Mrs.  Man- 
stey's  real  friends  were  the  denizens  of 
the  yards,  the  hyacinths,  the  magnolia, 
the  green  parrot,  the  maid  who  fed  the 
cats,  the  doctor  who  studied  late  behind 
his  mustard-colored  curtains  ;  and  the 
confidant  of  her  tenderer  musings  was 
the  church-spire  floating  in  the  sunset. 

One  April  day,  as  she  sat  in  her  usual 
place,  with  knitting  cast  aside  and  eyes 
fixed  on  the  blue  sky  mottled  with  round 
clouds,  a  knock  at  the  door  announced 
the  entrance  of  her  landlady.  Mrs.  Man- 
stey  did  not  care  for  her  landlady,  but 
she  submitted  to  her  visits  with  ladylike 
resignation.  To-day,  however,  it  seemed 
harder  than  usual  to  turn  from  the  blue 
sky  and  the  blossoming  magnolia  to  Mrs. 
Sampson's  unsuggestive  face,  and  Mrs. 
Manstey  was  conscious  of  a  distinct  ef- 
fort as  she  did  so. 

"  The  magnolia  is  out  earlier  than  usual 
this  year,  Mrs.  Sampson,"  she  remarked, 


196  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

yielding  to  a  rare  impulse,  for  she  seldom 
alluded  to  the  absorbing  interest  of  hei 
life.  In  the  first  place  it  was  a  topic  not 
likely  to  appeal  to  her  visitors  and,  be- 
sides, she  lacked  the  power  of  expression 
and  could  not  have  given  utterance  to  her 
feelings  had  she  wished  to. 

"  The  what,  Mrs.  Manstey  ?  "  inquired 
the  landlady,  glancing  about  the  room  as 
if  to  find  there  the  explanation  of  Mrs. 
Manstey's  statement. 

"The  magnolia  in  the  next  yard — in 
Mrs.  Black's  yard,"  Mrs.  Manstey  re- 
peated. 

"Is  it,  indeed?  I  didn't  know  there 
was  a  magnolia  there,"  said  Mrs.  Samp- 
son, carelessly.  Mrs.  Manstey  looked  at 
her  ;  she  did  not  know  that  there  was  a 
magnolia  in  the  next  yard  ! 

"  By  the  way,"  Mrs.  Sampson  contin- 
ued, "  speaking  of  Mrs.  Black  reminds  me 
that  the  work  on  the  extension  is  to  begin 
next  week. 


MRS.  MANSTEY'S  VIEW          197 

"The  what?"  it  was  Mrs.  Manstey's 
turn  to  ask. 

"  The  extension,"  said  Mrs.  Sampson, 
nodding  her  head  in  the  direction  of  the 
ignored  magnolia.  "  You  knew,  of 
course,  that  Mrs.  Black  was  going  to  build 
an  extension  to  her  house  ?  Yes,  ma'am, 
I  hear  it  is  to  run  right  back  to  the  end  of 
the  yard.  How  she  can  afford  to  build 
an  extension  in  these  hard  times  I  don't 
see  ;  but  she  always  was  crazy  about 
building.  She  used  to  keep  a  boarding- 
house  in  Seventeeth  Street,  and  she  near- 
ly ruined  herself  then  by  sticking  out  bow- 
windows  and  what  not ;  I  should  have 
thought  that  would  have  cured  her  of  build- 
ing, but  I  guess  it's  a  disease,  like  drink. 
Anyhow,  the  work  is  to  begin  on  Monday. " 

Mrs.  Manstey  had  grown  pale.  She 
always  spoke  slowly,  so  the  landlady  did 
not  heed  the  long  pause  which  followed. 
At  last  Mrs.  Manstey  said  :  "  Do  you 
know  how  high  the  extension  will  be  ?  " 


IpS  STORIES   OF   NEW   YORK 

"  That's  the  most  absurd  part  of  it. 
The  extension  is  to  be  built  right  up  to 
the  roof  of  the  main  building ;  now,  did 
you  ever  ?  " 

Mrs.  Manstey  paused  again.  "  Won't 
it  be  a  great  annoyance  to  you,  Mrs. 
Sampson  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  should  say  it  would.  But  there's  no 
help  for  it ;  if  people  have  got  a  mind  to 
build  extensions  there's  no  law  to  prevent 
'em,  that  I'm  aware  of."  Mrs.  Manstey, 
knowing  this,  was  silent  "  There  is  no 
help  for  it,"  Mrs.  Sampson  repeated, 
but  if  I  am  a  church  member,  I  wouldn't 
be  so  sorry  if  it  ruined  Eliza  Black.  Well, 
good-day,  Mrs  Manstey  ;  I'm  glad  to 
find  you  so  comfortable." 

So  comfortable — so  comfortable  !  Left 
to  herself  the  old  woman  turned  once 
more  to  the  window.  How  lovely  the 
view  was  that  day  !  The  blue  sky  with 
its  round  clouds  shed  a  brightness  over 
everything  ;  the  ailanthus  had  put  on  a 


MRS.  MANSTEY'S  VIEW          199 

tinge  of  yellow-green,  the  hyacinths  were 
budding,  the  magnolia  flowers  looked 
more  than  ever  like  rosettes  carved  in 
alabaster.  Soon  the  wistaria  would 
bloom,  then  the  horse-chestnut ;  but  not 
for  her.  Between  her  eyes  and  them  a 
barrier  of  brick  and  mortar  would  swiftly 
rise  ;  presently  even  the  spire  would  dis- 
appear, and  all  her  radiant  world  be 
blotted  out.  Mrs.  Manstey  sent  away 
untouched  the  dinner-tray  brought  to  her 
that  evening.  She  lingered  in  the  window 
until  the  windy  sunset  died  in  bat-colored 
dusk ;  then,  going  to  bed,  she  lay  sleepless 
all  night. 

Early  the  next  day  she  was  up  and  at 
the  window.  It  was  raining,  but  even 
through  the  slanting  gray  gauze  the  scene 
had  its  charm — and  then  the  rain  was  so 
good  for  the  trees.  She  had  noticed  the 
day  before  that  the  ailanthus  was  growing 
dusty. 

"Of  course  I  might  move,"  said  Mrs. 


200  STORIES    OF    NEW   YORK 

Manstey  aloud,  and  turning  from  the  win- 
dow she  looked  about  her  room.  She 
might  move,  of  course  ;  so  might  she  be 
flayed  alive  ;  but  she  was  not  likely  to 
survive  either  operation.  The  room, 
though  far  less  important  to  her  happiness 
than  the  view,  was  as  much  a  part  of  her 
existence.  She  had  lived  in  it  seventeen 
years.  She  knew  every  stain  on  the  wall- 
paper, every  rent  in  the  carpet ;  the  light 
fell  in  a  certain  way  on  her  engravings, 
her  books  had  grown  shabby  on  their 
shelves,  her  bulbs  and  ivy  were  used  to 
their  window  and  knew  which  way  to  lean 
to  the  sun.  "  We  are  all  too  old  to 
move,"  she  said. 

That  afternoon  it  cleared.  Wet  and 
radiant  the  blue  reappeared  through  torn 
rags  of  cloud  ;  the  ailanthus  sparkled  ;  the 
earth  in  the  flower-borders  looked  rich  and 
warm.  It  was  Thursday,  and  on  Monday 
the  building  of  the  extension  was  to  begin. 

On    Sunday    afternoon     a    card     was 


MRS.   MANSTEY  S  VIEW  2OI 

brought  to  Mrs.  Black,  as  she  was  en- 
gaged in  gathering  up  the  fragments  of 
the  boarders'  dinner  in  the  basement. 
The  card,  black- edged,  bore  Mrs.  Man- 
stey's  name. 

"  One  of  Mrs.  Sampson's  boarders  ; 
wants  to  move,  I  suppose.  Well,  I  can 
give  her  a  room  next  year  in  the  exten- 
sion. Dinah,"  said  Mrs.  Black,  "  tell  the 
lady  I'll  be  upstairs  in  a  minute." 

Mrs.  Black  found  Mrs.  Manstey  stand- 
ing in  the  long  parlor  garnished  with 
statuettes  and  antimacassars  ;  in  that 
house  she  could  not  sit  down. 

Stooping  hurriedly  to  open  the  register, 
which  let  out  a  cloud  of  dust,  Mrs.  Black 
advanced  to  her  visitor. 

"  I'm  happy  to  meet  you,  Mrs.  Man- 
stey ;  take  a  seat,  please,"  the  landlady 
remarked  in  her  prosperous  voice,  the 
voice  of  a  woman  who  can  afford  to  build 
extensions.  There  was  no  help  for  it ; 
Mrs.  Manstey  sat  down. 


202  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you, 
ma'am  ?  "  Mrs.  Black  continued.  "  My 
house  is  full  at  present,  but  I  am  going 
to  build  an  extension,  and " 

"  It  is  about  the  extension  that  I  wish 
to  speak,"  said  Mrs.  Manstey,  suddenly. 
"  I  am  a  poor  woman,  Mrs.  Black,  and  I 
have  never  been  a  happy  one.  I  shall 
have  to  talk  about  myself  first  to  —  to 
make  you  understand." 

Mrs.  Black,  astonished  but  impertur- 
bable, bowed  at  this  parenthesis. 

"  I  never  had  what  I  wanted,"  Mrs. 
Manstey  continued.  "It  was  always 
one  disappointment  after  another.  For 
years  I  wanted  to  live  in  the  country.  I 
dreamed  and  dreamed  about  it ;  but  we 
never  could  manage  it.  There  was  no 
sunny  window  in  our  house,  and  so  all 
my  plants  died.  My  daughter  married 
years  ago  and  went  away — besides,  she 
never  cared  for  the  same  things.  Then 
my  husband  died  and  I  was  left  alone. 


MRS.  MANSTEY  S   VIEW  203 

That  was  seventeen  years  ago.  I  went 
to  live  at  Mrs.  Sampson's,  and  I  have 
been  there  ever  since.  I  have  grown  a 
little  infirm,  as  you  see,  and  I  don't  get 
out  often  ;  only  on  fine  days,  if  I  am  feel- 
ing very  well.  So  you  can  understand 
my  sitting  a  great  deal  in  my  window — 
the  back  window  on  the  third  floor " 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Manstey,"  said  Mrs. 
Black,  liberally,  "  I  could  give  you  a 
back  room,  I  dare  say  ;  one  of  the  new 
rooms  in  the  ex " 

"But  I  don't  want  to  move;  I  can't 
move,"  said  Mrs.  Manstey,  almost  with 
a  scream.  "  And  I  came  to  tell  you  that 
if  you  build  that  extension  I  shall  have  no 
view  from  my  window — no  view  !  Do  you 
understand  ?  " 

Mrs.  Black  thought  herself  face  to  face 
with  a  lunatic,  and  she  had  always  heard 
that  lunatics  must  be  humored." 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me,"  she  remarked, 
pushing  her  chair  back  a  little  way,  "  that 


204  STORIES  OF   NEW   YORK 

is  too  bad,  isn't  it  ?  Why,  I  never 
thought  of  that.  To  be  sure,  the  exten- 
sion will  interfere  with  your  view,  Mrs. 
Manstey." 

"  You  do  understand  ?  "  Mrs.  Manstey 
gasped. 

"  Of  course  I  do.  And  I'm  real  sorry 
about  it,  too.  But  there,  don't  you  wor- 
ry, Mrs.  Manstey.  I  guess  we  can  fix 
that  all  right." 

Mrs.  Manstey  rose  from  her  seat,  and 
Mrs.  Black  slipped  toward  the  door. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  fixing  it  ?  Do 
you  mean  that  I  can  induce  you  to  change 
your  mind  about  the  extension  ?  Oh,  Mrs. 
Black,  listen  to  me.  I  have  two  thousand 
dollars  in  the  bank  and  I  could  manage, 
I  know  I  could  manage,  to  give  you  a 

thousand  if "  Mrs.  Manstey  paused  ; 

the  tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 

"  There,  there,  Mrs.  Manstey,  don't 
you  worry,"  repeated  Mrs.  Black,  sooth- 
ingly. "I  am  sure  we  can  settle  it.  I 


MRS.  MANSTEY  S   VIEW  205 

am  sorry  that  I  can't  stay  and  talk  about 
it  any  longer,  but  this  is  such  a  busy 
time  of  day,  with  supper  to  get " 

Her  hand  was  on  the  door-knob,  but 
with  sudden  vigor  Mrs.  Manstey  seized 
her  wrist 

"  You  are  not  giving  me  a  definite  an- 
swer. Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  ac- 
cept my  proposition  ?  " 

"Why,  I'll  think  it  over,  Mrs.  Man- 
stey, certainly  I  will.  I  wouldn't  annoy 
you  for  the  world " 

"  But  the  work  is  to  begin  to-morrow,  I 
am  told,"  Mrs.  Manstey  persisted. 

Mrs.  Black  hesitated.  "  It  shan't  be- 
gin, I  promise  you  that ;  I'll  send  word 
to  the  builder  this  very  night."  Mrs. 
Manstey  tightened  her  hold. 

"  You  are  not  deceiving  me,  are  you  ?  " 
she  said. 

"  No — no,"  stammered  Mrs.  Black. 
"  How  can  you  think  such  a  thing  of  me, 
Mrs.  Manstey  ?  " 


206  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

Slowly  Mrs.  Manstey's  clutch  relaxed, 
and  she  passed  through  the  open  door. 
"  One  thousand  dollars,"  she  repeated, 
pausing  in  the  hall  ;  then  she  let  herself 
out  of  the  house  and  hobbled  down  the 
steps,  supporting  herself  on  the  cast-iron 
railing. 

"  My  goodness,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Black, 
shutting  and  bolting  the  hall-door,  u  I 
never  knew  the  old  woman  was  crazy ! 
And  she  looks  so  quiet  and  ladylike, 
too." 

Mrs.  Manstey  slept  well  that  night,  but 
early  the  next  morning  she  was  awakened 
by  a  sound  of  hammering.  She  got  to 
her  window  with  what  haste  she  might 
and,  looking  out,  saw  that  Mrs.  Black's 
yard  was  full  of  workmen.  Some  were 
carrying  loads  of  brick  from  the  kitchen 
to  the  yard,  others  beginning  to  demolish 
the  old-fashioned  wooden  balcony  which 
adorned  each  story  of  Mrs.  Black's  house. 
Mrs.  Manstey  saw  that  she  had  been  de- 


MRS.  MANSTEY  S   VIEW  207 

ceived.  At  first  she  thought  of  confiding 
her  trouble  to  Mrs.  Sampson,  but  a  set- 
tled discouragement  soon  took  possession 
of  her  and  she  went  back  to  bed,  not  car- 
ing to  see  what  was  going  on. 

Toward  afternoon,  however,  feeling 
that  she  must  know  the  worst,  she  rose 
and  dressed  herself.  It  was  a  laborious 
task,  for  her  hands  were  stiffer  than  usual, 
and  the  hooks  and  buttons  seemed  to 
evade  her. 

When  she  seated  herself  in  the  window, 
she  saw  that  the  workmen  had  removed 
the  upper  part  of  the  balcony,  and  that 
the  bricks  had  multiplied  since  morning. 
One  of  the  men,  a  coarse  fellow  with  a 
bloated  face,  picked  a  magnolia  blossom 
and,  after  smelling  it,  threw  it  to  the 
ground  ;  the  next  man,  carrying  a  load  of 
bricks,  trod  on  the  flower  in  passing. 

"  Look  out,  Jim,"  called  one  of  the 
men  to  another  who  was  smoking  a  pipe, 
"  if  you  throw  matches  around  near  those 


203  STORIES   OF    NEW   YORK 

barrels  of  paper  you'll  have  the  old  tin- 
der-box burning  down  before  you  know 
it."  And  Mrs.  Manstey,  leaning  forward, 
perceived  that  there  were  several  barrels 
of  paper  and  rubbish  under  the  wooden 
balcony. 

At  length  the  work  ceased  and  twilight 
fell.  The  sunset  was  perfect  and  a  rose- 
ate light,  transfiguring  the  distant  spire, 
lingered  late  in  the  west.  When  it  grew 
dark  Mrs.  Manstey  drew  down  the  shades 
and  proceeded,  in  her  usual  methodical 
manner,  to  light  her  lamp.  She  always 
filled  and  lit  it  with  her  own  hands,  keep- 
ing a  kettle  of  kerosene  on  a  zinc-covered 
shelf  in  a  closet.  As  the  lamp-light  filled 
the  room  it  assumed  its  peaceful  as- 
pect. The  books  and  pictures  and  plants 
seemed,  like  their  mistress,  to  settle  them- 
selves down  for  another  quiet  evening, 
and  Mrs.  Manstey,  as  was  her  wont,  drew 
up  her  armchair  to  the  table  and  began  to 
knit. 


MRS.  MANSTEY  S  VIEW  209 

That  night  she  could  not  sleep.  The 
weather  had  changed  and  a  wild  wind 
was  abroad,  blotting  the  stars  with  close- 
driven  clouds.  Mrs.  Manstey  rose  once  or 
twice  and  looked  out  of  the  window  ;  but 
of  the  view  nothing  was  discernible  save  a 
tardy  light  or  two  in  the  opposite  win- 
dows. These  lights  at  last  went  out,  and 
Mrs.  Manstey,  who  had  watched  for  their 
extinction,  began  to  dress  herself.  She 
was  in  evident  haste,  for  she  merely  flung 
a  thin  dressing-gown  over  her  night-dress 
and  wrapped  her  head  in  a  scarf;  then 
she  opened  her  closet  and  cautiously  took 
out  the  kettle  of  kerosene.  Having  slipped 
a  bundle  of  wooden  matches  into  her 
pock  t  she  proceeded,  with  increasing 
precautions,  to  unlock  her  door,  and  a 
few  moments  later  she  was  feeling  her 
way  down  the  dark  staircase,  led  by  a 
glimmer  of  gas  from  the  lower  hall.  At 
length  she  reached  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs  and  began  the  more  difficult  descent 


210  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 

into  the  utter  darkness  of  the  basement. 
Here,  however,  she  could  move  more 
freely,  as  there  was  less  danger  of  being 
overheard  ;  and  without  much  delay  she 
contrived  to  unlock  the  iron  door  leading 
into  the  yard.  A  gust  of  cold  wind  smote 
her  as  she  stepped  out  and  groped  shiver- 
ingly  under  the  clothes-lines. 

That  morning  at  three  o'clock  an  alarm 
of  fire  brought  the  engines  to  Mrs.  Black's 
door,  and  also  brought  Mrs.  Sampson's 
startled  boarders  to  their  windows.  The 
wooden  balcony  at  the  back  of  Mrs. 
Black's  house  was  ablaze,  and  among 
those  who  watched  the  progress  of  the 
flames  was  Mrs.  Manstey,  leaning  in  her 
thin  dressing-gown  from  the  open  win- 
dow. 

The  fire,  however,  was  soon  put  out, 
and  the  frightened  occupants  of  the 
house,  who  had  fled  in  scant  attire,  reas- 
sembled at  dawn  to  find  that  little  mis- 
chief had  been  done  beyond  the  cracking 


MRS.  MANSTEY'S  VIEW          211 

of  window  panes  and  smoking  of  ceilings. 
In  fact,  the  chief  sufferer  by  the  fire  was 
Mrs.  Manstey,  who  was  found  in  the 
morning  gasping  with  pneumonia,  a  not 
unnatural  result,  as  everyone  remarked, 
of  her  having  hung  out  of  an  open  window 
at  her  age  in  a  dressing-gown.  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  she  was  very  ill,  but  no 
one  had  guessed  how  grave  the  doctor's 
verdict  would  be,  and  the  faces  gathered 
that  evening  about  Mrs.  Sampson's  table 
were  awe-struck  and  disturbed.  Not  that 
any  of  the  borders  knew  Mrs.  Manstey 
well ;  she  "  kept  to  herself,"  as  they  said, 
and  seemed  to  fancy  herself  too  good  for 
them  ;  but  then  it  is  always  disagreeable 
to  have  anyone  dying  in  the  house,  and, 
as  one  lady  observed  to  another:  "It 
might  just  as  well  have  been  you  or  me, 
my  dear." 

But  it  was  only  Mrs.  Manstey  ;  and  she 
was  dying,  as  she  had  lived,  lonely  if  not 
alone.  The  doctor  had  sent  a  trained 


STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 


nurse,  and  Mrs.   Sampson,  with 
muffled  step,   came  in  from 
time  to  time  ;  but  both,  to  Mrs. 
Manstey,  seemed  remote 
and  unsubstantial  as  the 
figures  in  a  dream.     All 
day  she  said  nothing  ;  but 
when   she  was    asked 
for  her  daughter's  ad- 
dress   she    shook   her 
head.      At    times    the 
nurse  noticed  that  she 
seemed  to  be  listening 
attentively    for    some 
sound  which   did   not 
come  ;  then  again  she 
dozed. 

The  next  morning  at 
daylight  she  was  very 
low.     The  nurse  called   Mrs.   Sampson, 
and  as  the  two  bent  over  the  old  woman 
they  saw  her  lips  move. 
"Lift  me  up — out  of  bed, "she  whispered. 


MRS.  MANSTEY'S   VIEW  213 

They  raised  her  in  their  arms,  and  with 
her  stiff  hand  she  pointed  to  the  window. 

"Oh,  the  window — she  wants  to  sit  in 
the  window.  She  used  to  sit  there  all 
day,"  Mrs.  Sampson  explained.  "  It  can 
do  her  no  harm,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Nothing  matters  now,"  said  the  nurse. 

They  carried  Mrs.  Manstey  to  the  win- 
dow and  placed  her  in  her  chair.  The 
dawn  was  abroad,  a  jubilant  spring 
dawn ;  the  spire  had  already  caught  a 
golden  ray,  though  the  magnolia  and 
horse-chestnut  still  slumbered  in  shadow. 
In  Mrs.  Black's  yard  all  was  quiet.  The 
charred  timbers  of  the  balcony  lay  where 
they  had  fallen.  It  was  evident  that  since 
the  fire  the  builders  had  not  returned  to 
their  work.  The  magnolia  had  unfolded 
a  few  more  sculptural  flowers  ;  the  view 
was  undisturbed. 

It  was  hard  for  Mrs.  Manstey  to 
breathe.  Each  moment  it  grew  more  dif- 
ficult. She  tried  to  make  them  open  the 


214  STORIES   OF   NEW  YORK 


window,  but  they  would  not  understand. 
If  she  could  have  tasted  the  air,  sweet 
with  the  penetrating  ailanthus  savor,  it 
would  have  eased  her  ;  but  the  view  at 
least  was  there — the  spire  was  golden 
now,  the  heavens  had  warmed  from  pearl 
to  blue,  day  was  alight  from  east  to  west, 
even  the  magnolia  had  caught  the  sun. 

Mrs.  Manstey's  head  fell  back,  and 
smiling  she  died. 

That  day  the  building  of  the  extension 
was  resumed. 


STORIES  FROM  SCRIBNER 
| 

STORIES  OF 

NEW  YORK 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1893 


Iii  this  series  of  little  books,  issued  under  the 
general  title  "  Stories  from  Scribner,"  the  purpose 
has  been  to  gather  together  some  of  the  best  and 
most  entertaining  short  stories  written  for  Scrib- 
ner's  Magazine  during  the  past  few  years,  and  to 
preserve  them  in  dainty  volumes  grouped  under 
attractive  subjects  and  decorated  by  a  few  illus- 
trations to  brighten  the  pages. 

The  set  as  arranged  consists  of  six  volumes,  the 


first  two  appearing  together  and  the  other  four 
at  intervals  of  about  a  month,  as  follows  : 

Stories  of  New  York. 
Stories  of  the  Railway. 
Stories  of  the  South. 
Stories  of  the  Sea. 
Stories  of  Italy. 
Stories  of  the  Army. 

The  books  are  furnished  in  three  bindings,  the 
paper  being  the  same  in  all.  Each  edition  is  pre- 
pared with  great  care,  and  every  effort  has  been 
made  to  secure  an  example  of  book-making  as 
dainty  and  perfect  as  possible. 

The  paper  edition  is  enclosed  in  a  transparent 
wrapper,  fastened  by  a  gold  seal  which  should  re- 
main unbroken  until  the  book  reaches  the  hands 
of  the  reader.  Price,  50  cents  a  volume. 

The  cloth  edition  has  gilt  top  and  rough  edges. 
Price,  75  cents  a  volume. 

The  half  calf  edition  is  bound  in  the  best  leather 
and  in  two  colors  —  blue  and  claret  —  gilt  top. 
Price,  $1.50  a  volume. 

Orders  for  the  entire  set  may  be  sent  to  the 
publishers  or  to  any  bookseller. 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  New  York. 


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